s 


BEHIND  THE  ARRAS. 


NOB*!. 


BY 

CONSTANCE   MAUDE   NEVILLE. 


Behind  the,  arras  I'll  convey  myself, 
To  hear  the  process. 

—  Hamlet:  Act  III,  Scene  3. 


SAN  FRANCISCO: 

A.    L.    BANCROFT    AND    COMPANY, 

721  MARKET  STREET. 

I877. 


R  <r 


Copyright,  1877,  by 
CONSTANCE  MAUDE  NEVILLE. 


I  -3  -7  &  - 
Bancroft  Ubnuty 


TO 

THE    MANY    FRIENDS 

WHO  HAVE 

ENCOURAGED    ITS    PUBLICATION, 


GRATEFULLY    INSCRIBED. 


BEHIND  THE  ARRAS. 


BEHIND  THE  ARRAS. 

BOOK  FIRST. 


CHAPTER  I. 

My  business  in  this  state 
Made  me  a  looker-on. 

—  Measure  for  Measure:  Act  V,  Scene  1. 

GENE:  The  grounds  of  Bratton  Hall, shire.     A  gently 

undulating  surface,  with  here  and  there  little  knolls  clothed 
with  the  greenest  of  grass  and  crowned  with  groups  of  stately 
oaks  and  majestic  elms.  Charmingly  cool  arbors  covered  with 
creeping  vines  whose  flowers,  peeping  within  through  the  interstices 
of  the  lattice  work,  seem  to  invite  one  with  their  delicious  odors  for 
a  lounge  on  a  warm  day,  are  scattered  in  the  little  valleys  formed  by 
these  hillocks.  A  murmur  of  waters  is  heard  as  a  winding  stream 
feeds  a  miniature  lake,  whose  placid  surface  is  screened  from  view 
by  the  weeping  willows  that  fringe  its  banks.  Shrubbery  is  in 
abundance  everywhere,  furnishing  homes  for  multitudes  of  birds, 
and  luxuriant  shade  for  less  sweet  voiced  mortals.  Nor  are  flowers 
wanting  in  all  their  varied  hues;  but  so  artistically  are  they  arranged 
that  the  brightest  colors  blend  harmoniously,  and  nothing  glaring 
meets  the  eye.  This  seemingly  enchanted  spot  is  surrounded  by 
towering  poplars  which  give  character  by  their  stiff  beauty  to  the 
whole  scene,  and  form  the  boundary  line  beyond  which  stretch  far 
away  on  every  side  long  vistas  of  rolling  park  land  and  verdant 
meadow. 

The  dramatis personce  are  three:  One,  a  man,  tall  and  distingue  in 
appearance  as  he  approaches  in  the  distance;  by  his  side,  the  slight, 
graceful  figure  of  a  young  girl  who  moves  silently  along  with  bent 
head,  listening,  it  seems,  to  her  companion.  The  two  are  Alva 
Ingolsby,  a  friend  and  visitor  at  Bratton  Hall,  and  Lucy  Egerton, 
the  adopted  daugher  of  Sir  Griffith  Egerton,  Bart.,  its  master.  As 
they  turn  down  one  of  the  rose-bordered  paths  that  lead  to  the 
lake  before  reaching  the  arbor  in  which,  I,  Julia  Lifford,  the- third, 


8  BEHIND   THE  AREAS. 

am  enjoying  the  cool  of  the  afternoon  and  beguiling  an  hour  before 
the  dressing-bell  sounds  for  dinner,  with  thoughts  of  days  now  long 
past  and  gone,  let  me,  by  way  of  prologue,  say  a  few  words  gleaned 
from  the  recollections  that  have  been  uppermost  in  iny  mind — a  pro- 
logue which  I  hope,  unlike  prologues  in  general,  will  not  be  totally 
without  interest  to  you,  my  dear  reader:  the  audience. 

I  am  an  old  maid  now;  that  is,  if  six-and-thirfcy  years  can  make 
one;  but  long  ago — when  I  was  a  blooming,  and  I  may  without 
vanity  say,  a  pretty  girl,  having  by  this  time  lost  all  youth  and 
freshness,  and  seeming  a  totally  different  person  to  myself — Griffith 
Egerton,  a  distant  relative,  but  next  in  succession  to  the  baronetcy 
and  estate  of  my  step-father,  Sir  Ealph  Egerton,  had  corne  here  to 
Bratton  with  his  wife  and  only  child,  Guy,  a  boy  of  eleven  years, 
for  a  week's  visit  during  the  shooting  season.  A  dear  old  place  was 
Bratton  Hall  then,  with  its  mazy  passages  and  antique  nooks,  and 
where,  as  a  child,  I  loved  to  play,  and  was  often  lost  in  old,  almost 
forgotten  rooms.  But  of  all  my  youthful  days,  the  happiest  were 
those  when  I  could  escape  from  the  old  house,  and  wander  through 
these  grounds  with  Louis  Dunraven,  my  betrothed.  They  were 
happy  days,  too  happy  to  last,  for  a  moment's  work  shattered  them 
for  ever.  One  morning  Louis  went  out  for  his  favorite  sport,  tak- 
ing young  Guy  Egerton  with  him.  The  two  started  together  after 
breakfast,  Guy,  as  I  remember  him,  a  handsome,  impetuous  boy, 
with  a  head  full  of  wild  tales  of  adventure,  and  with  a  boy's  love 
for  the  marvelous.  They  were  both  in  high  spirits,  laughing  and 
talking  as  they  walked  down  the  avenue,  their  merry  voices  borne 
back  to  me  as  I  watched  them  out  of  sight  and  hearing.  They  were 
gone  all  day,  an  unusual  occurrence,  and  even  when  dinner  time 
came,  had  not  returned.  We  delayed  the  meal  some  time,  and 
then  lingered  over  it,  but  still  they  came  not.  Later  we  were  all 
standing  on  the  terrace,  thinking  they  must  indeed  have  found  good 
sport  and  wandered  far,  when  a  group  of  men  appeared  in  the 
avenue  bearing  some  heavy  burden  between  them. 

Nature  robed  in  the  calm  and  gentle  beauty  of  early  evening  was 
little  in  harmony — as  how  often  many  aching  hearts  can  testify — 
with  the  sensation  of  dismal  foreboding  and  horror  that  then  crept 
slowly  over  me,  paralyzing  every  nerve.  Such  a  feeling  can  only 
be  understood  by  one  who  has  parted  cheerily  from  a  loved  one  in 
the  morning,  to  see  him  brought  home  at  night  as  was  mine,  for 
that  heavy  burden  was  my  own,  my  darling  Louis,  dead;  mortally 
wounded  by  a  shot  through  the  lungs.  What  was  hardest  to  bear, 
and  is  most  trying  to  remember  even  now,  was  that  we  had  no  last 
words — no  parting. 


BEHIND   THE  ARRAS.'  9 

Tlie  terrible  shock  was  more  than  my  strength  could  withstand, 
and  for  years  after  my  mind  was  not  my  own.  When,  at  last,  rea- 
son returned,  it  was  only  by  degrees  that  memory  came  back  to  me. 
I  was v  alone  in  the  world,  my  step-father  dead  and  gone,  and  Sir 
Griffith  Egerton  installed  as  master  of  Brattori  Hall.  My  step- 
father, whom  I  loved  as  an  own  parent,  was  a  widower  and  child- 
less, and  to  Sir  Griffith  he  had  left  all  his  private  fortune  in  trust 
for  me,  requesting  him  to  care  for  me  as  his  own.  Right  well  has 
Sir  Griffith  followed  the  provisions  of  the  will,  and  has  allowed  me 
to  remain  here  in  my  old  home.  But  no  one  could  ever  fill  the  va- 
cant place  in  my  heart.  Never  have  my  affections  been  given  to 
other  than  Louis  Dunraven,  for  with  Moore  do  I  believe  that, 

"Those  who  have  truly  loved,  never  forget. " 

Close  upon  that  fearful  event,  his  tragical  death,  followed  the 
inquest.  The  evidence  clearly  and  circumstantially  established  the 
fact  that  he  had  been  murdered,  and  pointed  to  young  Guy  Eger- 
ton as  the  perpetrator  of  the  crime,  his  sudden  flight  and  continued 
absence  after  the  commission  of  the  act,  for  since  that  fatal  day  he 
had  never  re-appeared,  satisfying  the  coroner's  jury — though  a  mo- 
tive for  the  deed  was  sought  for  in  vain — that  the  shooting  was  not 
accidental,  and  by  their  verdict  they  charged  him  with  willful  mur- 
der. None  know  except  himself,  if  he  still  be  living,  what  were  the 
true  causes  of  the  tragedy  enacted  in  the  lonely  wood — whether  he 
be  really  guilty  or  innocent;  and  though  the  mention  of  his  name 
is  forbidden  in  our  household,  and  all  that  could  bring  to  mind  the 
fact  that  he  ever  existed  has  long  since  been  banished  from  the 
place  by  order  of  his  father,  in  short,  though  his  guilt  is  regarded 
as  an  accepted  fact  by  all,  still,  I  have  ever  believed  the  poor  boy 
innocent  of  the  terrible  offense  laid  to  him  by  the  jury. 

Shortly  after  the  loss  of  their  son,  Sir  Griffith  and  Lady  Egerton 
adopted  a  child,  a  little,  fair-haired  imp  of  a  girl,  self-willed  and 
passionate.  But,  lo!  suddenly  a  change  came  o'er  the  spirit  of  her 
dream,  and  behold  in  yonder  gentle  creature,  again  approaching  with 
her  companion,  the  subject  of  a  wonderful  metamorphosis.  She 
still  retains  the  beautiful  hair  of  her  childhood,  which  some  people, 
when  anger  or  envy  curls  their  lip,  would  sneeringly  call  red;  but 
by  no  means  is  it  that  ordinary  shade  associated  in  our  minds,  as 
often  in  reality,  with  freckles.  It  most  resembles  burnished  gold, 
shaded  by  the  faintest  tinge  of  red,  and  is  now  brought  back  in 
waves  from  the  low,  broad  white  forehead,  and  caught  in  a  Grecian 
knot  behind  the  ears,  Beneath  dark  eyebrows,  and  long  dark 
lashes,  shine  bright  black  eyes  that  can  sparkle  with  merriment  or 


10  BEHIND  THE  ARRAS. 

flash  forth  brief  signals  of  the  willful  spirit  within;  but  quite  nat- 
ural to  them  is  the  rarer,  more  soft  and  warmer  light  that  now 
lingers  under  the  drooping  lids,  whispering  of  a  sweet  and  gentle 
disposition.  The  determined  mouth  and  chin  denote  strength  of 
will,  and  it  may  be  a  trifle  of  obstinacy.  Altogether  it  is  a  striking 
rather  than  a  strictly  pretty  face,  but  a  pleasing  and  a  fascinating 
one  for  all  that — one  that  is  apt  to  send  you  off  into  wondering  spec- 
ulations as  to  the  effect  which  worldly  trials  may  have  upon  the  com- 
bined strength  and  sweetness  of.  her  nature. 

To  describe  her  companion  is  a  not  less  pleasing  task.  He  has 
reached  that  time  of  life  when  a  man's  character  is  formed;  and, 
looking  back  with  a  smile  upon  the  follies  of  boyhood,  he  can  yet 
feel  that  there  are  years  of  an  appreciative  and  still  youthful  enjoy- 
ment of  life  before  him.  His  well-knit  frame  is  above  the  middle 
height,  and  there  is  a  certain  dignified  ease  and  frank  courteousness 
in  his  manner  that  rarely  proceeds  from  high-breeding  alone;  or, 
when  it  does,  is  not  so  perfect  and  whole-soulecl  as  when  culture 
acts  merely  as  a  guide  through  the  channels  of  refinement,  for  im- 
pulses of  the  heart  naturally  good.  He  has  a  handsome  face,  well- 
cut  features,  and  in  repose  a  thoughtful,  pre-occupied  expression. 
Hair,  whiskers,  and  mustache  are  a  dark  brown.  The  eyebrows, 
though  not  heavy,  yet  seem  to  cast  a  shadow  on  the  changeable 
eyes  beneath,  which  vary  in  color  from  the  lightest  shade  of  violet 
to  a  darker  and  warmer  tint  of  gray — changeable  in  expression  as 
in  color,  sometimes  laughing,  sometimes  grave,  often  sad; — but  for 
that  indescribable  shadow,  one  might  read  his  very  soul  in  their 
otherwise  clear  depths.  And  his  smile — how  quickly  it  chases  the 
gloom  from  his  eyes,  and  lights  his  entire  countenance  in  a  but  too 
fleeting  joyousness. 

As  they  come  within  hearing  of  my  place  of  concealment — I  say 
concealment,  because  I  can  both  see  and  hear,  though  unseen  my- 
self— he,  in  a  full  voice,  deep  without  gruffness,  says  to  her:  "Let 
us  rest  on  the  bench  outside  this  arbor,  Miss  Egerton.  You  must 
feel  fatigued  with  our  long  ramble,  and  I  fear  it  was  very  selfish  in 
me  to  lead  you  on  and  on  simply  because  I  enjoyed  your  conversa- 
tion." 

"  You  alone  cannot  plead  selfishness,  Mr.  Ingolsby,  for  I  became 
so  interested  in  the  subject  we  were  talking  about  that  I  quite  for- 
got I  was  keeping  you  from  your  afternoon  ride,  and  it  is  too  late 
now.  But  tell  me:  Do  you  really  leave  us  so  soon  as  next  week?" 

"  Yes.  I  have  some  business  of  importance  to  attend  to  in  town, 
and  I  have  been  playing  the  idler  here  a  long  time;  but  now  Mam- 
mon calls  me  peremptorily  from  Paradise." 


BEHIND   THE  AREAS.  11 

A  pause  while  they  seat  themselves  on  the  bench  which  runs 
around  the  outside  of  my  arbor;  then  the  softer  voice  says,  while 
its  owner's  fingers  slowly  pull  a  rose  to  pieces: 

' '  You  have  spoken  of  a  change  in  nie  since  your  first  visit  two 
years  ago — would  you  like  to  know  the  cause  ?" 

"I  should,  indeed,"  Ingolsby  replies,  twirling  his  hat  in  his 
hands  as  he  leans  forward  with  his  elbows  on  his  knees.  "Do 
you  know,  Miss  Egerton,  that  I  have  actually  been  upon  the 
point  of  asking  you  the  cause  several  times,  but  fearing  you  might 
think  my  inquisitiveness  bordered  on  impertinence." 

"Yes?  How  very  absurd.  I'll  tell  you,  then;  but  you  mustn't 
think  me  egotistical,  for  you  are  the  only  one  to  whom  I  would 
speak  on  the  subject  of  my  uninteresting  self.  Do  you  remember 
that  day  two  years  ago  when  you  gave  me  a  lecture  on  temper?" 

"I  do  recollect  something  of  the  sort;  yes.  "What  did  I  say? 
But  I  shouldn't  expect  you  to  remember  my  words,  when  I  can't  do 
it  myself.  Of  course  you  forgot  what  I  said  the  very  next  minute." 

"On  the  contrary,  so  great  an  impression  did  they  make  on  my 
mind,  for  I  got  very  angry  " — 

"  I  remember  that,  distinctly." 

"  Don't  interrupt  me,  please,"  with  a  gentle  tap  with  the  point  of 
her  parasol.  "  I  say,  so  great  an  impression  did  they  make  on  my 
mind  that  I  can  repeat  your  very  words.  Listen  and  judge  for 
yourself  if  I  had  not  reason  for  anger.  '  Miss  Egerton '  you  began 
in  a  solemn  tone;  '  let  me  have  a  few  words  with  you  on  a  rather 
painful,  but  to  me,  most  interesting  subject,  and  believe  me  I  do 
not  wish  to  hurt  or  wound  your  feelings,  for  I  speak  from  motives 
of  pure  kindness  to  yourself — ahem!'  'J 

"Not  a  bad  sort  of  a  prelude  that,  barring  the  '  ahein!'  I  don't 
think  I  was  quite  guilty  of  that." 

"  I'll  not  be  positive  that  you  cleared  your  throat  at  that  point  of 
your  remarks.  But  let  me  go  on,  please.  '  My  dear  child  '- 

"  Oh,  come  now;  I  never  called  you  that." 

"Yes,  indeed,  you  did — but  it  was  two  years  ago;  you  mustn't 
forget  that.  But  I  shall  never  get  through  if  you  keep  on  in  this 
way.  I  sha'n't  tell  you  another  word  until  you  promise  not  to  inter- 
rupt me  again." 

"  I  promise,"  in  a  solemn  voice,  as  he  holds  up  his  right  hand. 

"  *  My  dear  child,  you  must  be  conscious  of  possessing,  to  speak 
candidly,  a  most  ungovernable  temper,  and  brusque,  unpleasing 
manners.'  Not  a  word,  remember  your  promise.  I  listened  with 
pretended  indifference,  but  your  words  stung  me  to  the  quick.  My 
blood  was  boiling  with  anger  while  you  calmly  went  on :  '  Why  cul- 


12  BEHIND   THE  AERAS. 

tivate  and  foster  these  disagreeable  traits  which  make  yourself  and 
all  about  you  unhappy  and  miserable  ?  With  your  strength  of  char- 
acter, at  present  perverted  into  obstinacy,  you  might  make  yourself 
what  you  should  wish  to  be.  A  great  man  noted  for  his  good  humor 
once  said:  "  It  matters  little  that  you  have  the  worst  possible  tem- 
per by  nature  if  you  have  the  best  possible  control  over  it  by  philos-i 
ophy;"  and  he  was  a  living  example  of  his  own  theory.'  You  were 
continuing  in  the  same  strain,  when  I  with  some  saucy  words  broke 
away  from  you,  and  you  left  next  day  thinking  your  kind  words 
wasted — Hush!  yes,  they  were  kind  words,  though  I  thought  them 
not  so  then — and  that  you  had  made  the  perverse  girl  hate  you. 
Was  it  not  so?"  and  she  glanced  at  him  archly.  "Candidly,  and 
without  nonsense,  was  it  not  so  ?" 

A  shade  of  seriousness  comes  over  Ingolsby's  face  at  her  words, 
and  he  answers  in  a  low  tone,  not  entirely  free  from  embarrassment: 
"  To  deal  candidly  with  you,  Miss  Egerton,  and  eschew  all  badin- 
age— yes,  I  will  confess  that  I  left  with  a  heavy  heart,  expecting 
and  fearing  that  your  worst  traits  would  grow  with  your  growth  and 
strengthen  with  your  strength.  But  it  has  become  lighter  as  I  have 
since  remarked  the  gradual  change  for  the  better  in  you.  Now  I 
reproach  myself  that  I  did  not  see  more  clearly  and  leave  those  un- 
lucky words  unspoken;  for  I  cannot  be  vain  enough  to  imagine 
that  they  could  have  had  any  influence  with  you — those  unlucky 
words  that  seem  only  to  have  been  treasured  up  against  me." 

"No,  no,  Mr.  Ingolsby,  don't — please  don't  say  that.  It  was 
those  words  that  worked  the  change.  I  tried  at  first  not  to  remem- 
ber them,  but  they  would  come  unbidden  to  my  mind  again  and 
again,  and  the  wish  to  try  the  philosophical  experiment  grew  upon 
me.  Then  I  thought  of  the  abominable  disposition  with  which  I 
was  born,  and  with  which  philosophy  would  have  to  contend  single- 
handed,  and  despair  seized  upon  me.  Still  I  could  not  banish  the 
idea,  and  on  the  impulse  of  the  moment  I  made  the  effort,  and  the 
battle  began  in  real  earnest.  The  struggle  in  my  mind  was  con- 
tinual, and  often  was  I  tempted  to  give  up  the  fight;  but  my  pride 
was  roused;  you  were  right,  I  had  a  will,  and  would  not  yield. 
When  angry  words  rose  to  my  lips,  I  bit  my  tongue  and  substituted 
kind  ones,  although  it  nearly  choked  me  at  times  to  think  that 
people  might  imagine  I  was  growing  amiable.  But  at  last  the  re- 
ward came:  life  seemed  happier  and  brighter;  every  one  seemed  to 
love  me  better,  and  it  was  such  exquisite  pleasure  to  feel  that  I  de- 
served their  love.  I  imagined  I  had  conquered,  till  you  came  this 
time,  and  I  thought  of  telling  you  all — of  the  victory  your  kindly- 
spoken  words  had  enabled  me  to  achieve;  and  then  the  war  I  had 


BEHIND  THE  AREAS.  13 

to  wage  against  the  thought  that  the  avowal  would  flatter  you  too 
much,  showed  that  the  fortress  was  not  yet  won.  But  you  see  that  I 
have,  at  least,  gained  another  outwork  by  telling  you  this." 

There  is  silence  for  a  minute,  she  looking  undecided  whether  to 
stay  or  run  away,  but  quite  decided  as  to  the  wish  that  she  had  left 
all  unspoken;  he,  looking  down  at  the  bent  head  beside  him  with 
pleasure  and  admiration  in  his  eyes,  is  the  first  to  speak.  Taking 
her  hand,  which  she  yields  passively,  he  says: 

' '  Will  you  answer  me  one  little  question  ?  "  There  is  no  answer, 
and  he  continues:  "  Was  it  simply  the  wish  to  test  your  strength  and 
the  hope  of  conquering  yourself  unaided  and  alone  that  led  to  this 
marvelous  change?  Or,  was  there,"  and  his  voice  sinks  so  low 
as  to  be  almost  inaudible  to  me,  "  any  trifling  thought  of  pleasing 
another?  Tell  me,  truly — Lucy,"  and  he  bows  his  head  low  to 
catch  her  answer. 

Lucy  evidently  understands  him,  for  the  blood  rushes  to  her  face 
as  she  turns  it  from  him  towards  the  latticed  walls  of  the  arbor,  and 
her  eyes  are  soft  and  gentle;  but  as  she  lets  them  rest  for  an  instant 
upon  the  twining  climatis  a  bright  willful  look  comes  into  them,  and 
still  holding  her  head  away  from  him,  she  replies:  "The  thought  of 
succeeding  was  so  absorbing  and  overpowering  that  it  has  chased 
all  recollection  of  a  motive  from  my  mind." 

Ingolsby's  lips  close  tightly  with  a  pained  expression,  but  open 
again  to  speak,  when,  in  spite  of  my  efforts  to  control  it,  an  unlucky 
sneeze  warns  them  of  my  presence. 

As  Lucy's  head  appears  around  the  door-post,  I  start  with  well 
feigned  surprise;  ask  how  long  she  has  been  there,  and,  yawning, 
say :  I  must  have  slept  some  time. 

I  am  no  heroine,  and  do  not  hesitate  to  say  that  I  have  no  foolish 
horror  of  what  is  commonly  called  "eaves-dropping;"  at  least,  I  am 
honest  enough,  I  hope,  to  confess  a  belief  shared,  but  sedulously 
concealed,  by  nine-tenths  of  mankind.  If  one's  purpose  is  a  good 
one,  or  even  a  harmless  one,  where  it  pleases  yourself  and  hurts  no 
one,  bribing  servants,  or  making  use  of  a  ke^-hole  for  other  pur- 
poses than  locking  a  door,  or  any  little  trifle  of  that  sort,  is  to  my 
mind,  quite  allowable. 

Curl  not  your  lip  in  scorn,  O  reader,  but  only  if  you  belong  to 
the  other  one-tenth  will  your  sneer  be  genuine;  for  were  I  never  to 
feign  ignorance  where  I  know  or  suspect  much,  and  were  some 
others  as  well  as  myself  to  have  practiced,  so  far  as  the  habit  of 
eaves-dropping  is  concerned,  as  it  is  thought  popular  to  preach,  the 
knowledge  that  has  enabled  me  to  construct  this  little  tale  had  never 
been  mine. 


14  BEHIND   THE  ARRAS. 

I  am  rewarded,  in  the  present  instance,  by  a  kiss  from  a  pair  of 
soft  lips,  and  by  a  smile  from  Ingolsby;  whereas,  had  I  not  prac- 
ticed the  harmless  little  deception,  all  would  have  felt  uncomfort- 
ably embarrassed;  or,  had  I  discovered  my  whereabouts  at  first, 
Alva  Ingolsby  might  never  have  heard  what  has  caused  the  happy 
smile  that  has  now  returned  to  his  face.  But  the  warning  bell 
clangs  out  on  the  soft  evening  air,  and  silently  we  leave  the  arbor, 
and  wend  our  way  back  to  the  house  to  dress  for  dinner. 


CHAPTER  II. 

Draw  the  curtain  close. 
We  shall  hear  more  anon. 

—  Henry  VIII:  Act  V,  Scene  2. 

FEW  minute's  walk  beneath  overhanging  boughs  brings  us  to 
an  opening  in  the  trees  where  involuntarily  we  pause  as  the 
house  comes  full  in  view  with  the  rays  of  the  setting  sun  fall- 
ing upon  its  turrets  and  gables,  enlivening  the  clinging  ivy, 
and  casting  intense  light  and  shade  upon  the  old  gray  stones. 

"The  beauty  of  a  serene  and  dignified  old  age,"  remarks  Alva 
Ingolsby  in  a  low  tone,  with  a  look  of  reverence  in  his  eyes. 

"  It  must  have  been  massive  and  mighty  once,"  says  Lucy;  "  but 
papa  has  thrown  out  wings  in  every  direction,  until,  like  a  spoilt 
child,  its  worst  features  have  increased  with  age,  and  little  good  is 
perceptible  except  to  the  eye  of  a  fond  doting  parent.  I  mean  no 
disrespect  to  papa's  taste,  for  to  me  it  is  beautiful  with  all  its  de- 
fects, but  strange  eyes  can  only  see  an  incongruous  and  decidedly 
ugly  building.  Look  at  that  broad  balcony  across  the  southern 
wing.  It  is  better  suited  to  a  cottage  than  to  this  castle-like  struc- 
ture." 

No  word  from  Ingolsby;  but  the  shadow  darkens  in  his  eyes,  and 
we  again  move  onward. 

I  cannot  gainsay  the  justice  of  Lucy's  criticism,  although  the 
place  is  so  dear  to  me.  It  is  a  queer-looking  structure.  Of  no  par- 
ticular shape  now,  whatever  it  may  have  been  originally,  wings  jut 
out  in  every  direction,  no  two  of  them  being  exactly  alike.  Some 
are  low  and  rambling;  some  tower  above  the  main  building,  while 
others  reach  to  the  principal  roof  only.  Windows  of  every  conceiv- 
able size  and  shape  puncture  the  walls,  and  a  few  peep  out  from 
spots  where  it  seems  impossible  that  a  room  can  be  within.  From 
numerous  doors,  narrow  winding  stairs  lead  into  the  grounds  be- 
neath. The  grand  entrance  is  reached  by  a  flight  of  massive  stone 


BEHIND  THE  ARRAS.  15 

steps,  low,  broad  and  eas}r  of  ascent.  And  here  one  sees  an  odd 
•whim  of  the  owner,  for  they  are  guarded  like  the  approach  to  the 
Ming  Tombs  of  China,  by  animals  in  bronze.  At  each  end  of  every 
step  stands  a  dog,  life  size  and  natural.  You  first  encounter  a  pair 
of  fierce  watch  dogs  that  almost  frighten  you  into  retreating,  dumb 
inanimate  figures  though  they  be.  Provided  you  have  courage  to 
pass  the  two  foremost,  you  are  gazed  at  in  your  ascent  by  mastiffs, 
greyhounds,  and  Newfoundlands,  and  are  finally  ushered  into  the 
house  by  a  pair  of  the  dearest  little  poodles,  that  look  flossy  enough 
for  petting  and  fondling.  In  fact  it  is  a  house  or  castle  (I  hardly 
know  which  to  call  it)  that  seems  to  have  been  thrown  together 
utterly  without  plan,  or  formed  from  the  discarded  odds  and  ends 
of  numerous  designs:  a  place  where  one  can  feel  supremely  happy, 
or  thoroughly  miserable;  in  the  seventh  heaven  or  the  depths  of  pur- 
gatory, according  to  one's  disposition.  'Twould  drive  a  neat  house- 
wife wild  to  keep  its  holes  and  corners  in  anything  like  order;  it 
would  kill  a  lazy  man,  with  its  innumerable  steep  winding  stairs; 
delight  young  people  with  its  mazes;  please  a  student  with  the 
silence  and  solitude  of  its  remote  rooms;  and  surely,  would  it  break 
the  neck  of  every  careless  person,  with  its  three  steps  up,  and  five 
steps  down,  in  the  darkest,  most  obscure  passages.  This  is  Bratton 
Hall,  the  place  where  I  was  born  and  reared. 

Two  minutes  and  a  half,  and  we  have  ascended  the  winding  path- 
way across  the  lawn,  choosing  it  in  preference  to  the  broad,  dusty 
avenue.  And  now,  we  pass  through  the  ranks  of  watchful  canines, 
and  enter  the  large  square  hall,  adorned  with  carvings  in  oak. 
Here  we  part  till  dinner  time.  Lucy,  with  a  burst  of  song,  springs 
up  the  stairs  to  her  room;  Alva  saunters  away  to  the  library;  and  I, 
more  slowly  and  staidly,  as  becomes  my  years,  cross  the  inlaid  floor 
and  proceed  to  my  apartments,  thinking  of  the  confession  so  recently 
heard  from  Lucy's  lips. 

Now  I  know  why  the  careless,  passionate  girl  changed  so  marvel- 
ously  into  a  thoughtful  woman.  Formerly,  none  dare  thwart  her 
slightest  wish  from  fear  of  the  storm  that  would  be  raised  about 
their  ears,  and  the  dread  of  some  practical  joke  in  retaliation.  Now, 
no  one  could  be  more  considerate  of  the  feelings  and  wishes  of 
others  than  she.  Truly  sweet  tempered  has  she  become — not  with 
the  mawkish  docility  of  one  who  is  too  phlegmatic  or  without  suf- 
ficient depth  of  feeling  to  be  otherwise,  but  with  the  sweetness  of  a 
strong  nature,  when  all  the  sourness  of  uncharitableness  is  cast 
out,  as  if  by  force,  and  only  that  which  is  good  retained,  solely 
because  it  is  good.  A  great  change,  verily!  But  the  cause;  is  it 
love?  Qai  vivra  verra. 


16  BEHIND   THE  ARRAS. 

Naturally  gifted  with  a  gentle  and  loving  disposition,  sympathetic 
and  highly  sensitive,  Lucy,  in  her  childhood,  had  been  allowed  to 
spring  up  with  little  or  no  training  to  guide  and  strengthen  her 
good  qualities.  Taken  by  the  Egertons  from  a  father  who  im- 
plored their  charity  for  his  motherless  child,  at  a  time  when  they 
were  in  deep  sorrow  for  the  loss  of  their  son,  no  definite  plans  were 
formed  for  her  future.  A  young  child,  scarcely  more  than  a  baby, 
coming  into  the  niidst  of  a  lonely  household,  she  soon  became  a  pet 
with  her  odd  little  ways,  which  even  then  showed  themselves;  and 
neither  the  eccentric  Sir  Griffith  nor  his  trouble-shunning  wife 
being  competent  trainers  of  a  female  child — I,  at  the  time,  was  in- 
capacitated by  illness  from  lending  my  aid — she  grew  up  in  fact 
quite  as  she  pleased;  now  petted  and  praised;  again,  scolded  and 
blamed.  When  she  arrived  at  length  at  an  age  when  some  course 
in  regard  to  education  and  her  future  life  could  no  longer  be  post- 
poned, the  odd  whim  seized  Sir  Griffith  of  adopting  the  child  as  his 
own,  and,  overcoming  his  wife's  scruples  in  that  respect,  he  did 
so;  straightway  installed  a  governess  in  the  house,  and  forbade 
that  Miss  Egerton,  as  in  fact  he  had  long  since  given  orders  that 
she  should  be  called,  should  be  told  that  she  ever  had  another 
name.  Never  from  the  first  moment  of  her  arrival  at  Bratton  Hall, 
allowed  to  hear  anything  of  her  past  life,  whatever  dim  recollec- 
tions of  it  she  may  have  had,  of  course,  at  her  early  age,  soon  faded 
from  her  memory,  and  at  this  present  moment  Lucy  has  not  the 
very  faintest  suspicion  of  her  origin,  but  looks  upon  herself  as  the 
true  and  lawful  daughter  of  Sir  Griffith  and  Lady  Egerton.  Miss 
Biggerstaff,  the  governess,  though  read  in  all  the  book  lore,  and 
versed  in  all  the  arts  and  graces,  a  knowledge  of  which  polite  so- 
ciety deems  essential  to  the  well-being  of  every  young  lady,  was  yet, 
unfortunately  for  her  pupil,  a  very  weak  woman.  Lucy's  mind, 
though  thoroughly  educated  and  accomplished,  was  not  disciplined. 
I  say  everything  when  I  say  her  training  lacked 

"A  mother's  eye — a  mother's  fostering  care." 

Sensitive  to  the  smallest  kindness,  and  shrinking  from  harsh 
words,  yet  ashamed  to  acknowledge  what  was  soft  and  womanly  in 
her  nature,  she  assumed  a  brusqueness  that  was  at  war  with  her 
true  feelings;  and  an  impatience  of  obstacles  in  her  path  soon  de- 
veloped into  temper.  Altogether,  the  girl  was  not  lovable  to  those 
who  had  not  discovered  sterling  good  qualities,  when  two  years  ago 
Alva  Ingolsby  came  to  stay  at  Bratton  Hall.  At  first  he  and  Lucy 
were  good  friends;  but  without  warning,  and,  as  we  all  thought, 


BEHIND   THE  ARRAS.  17 

without  cause,  she  declared  war  against  him,  refusing  even  to  bid 
him  good-bye  on  the  evening  which  ended  his  last  visit  here.  From 
that  time  there  was  a  marked  change  in  her  manner:  at  first  becom- 
ing irritable  and  shunning  companionship,  her  demeanor  soon 
settled  into  a  pleasing  gentleness  broken  only  on  rare  occasions  by 
outbursts  of  her  old  temper;  and  when  Miss  Biggerstaff  left  us  a 
few  mouths  ago,  she  was  with  reason  proud  of  her  pupil. 

How  much  time  I  have  wasted  in  thought!  Only  ten  minutes  left 
to  dress,  and  then  down  to  the  drawing  room.  I  am  the  first  to  enter, 
and  I  take  my  place  at  an  open  window  beneath  the  heavy  damask 
curtains,  from  where,  not  being  in  the  mood  for  conversation,  I  can 
watch  the  others  come  in,  and,  perchance,  keep  dinner  waiting  a 
little  beyond  the  usual  time,  before  I  make  my  appearance.  Not  a 
very  amiable  proceeding,  perhaps;  but  one,  in  its  results,  exceed- 
ingly amusing,  if  Sir  Griffith,  according  to  custom,  becomes  restless 
and  stamps  about,  and  his  wife  throws  imploring  glances  alternately 
at  him  and  at  the  door,  as  though  that  poor  piece  of  wooden  use- 
fulness could  aid  her. 

Ah!  here  comes  Lucy.  She  glances  around,  sees  no  one,  and 
seating  herself  at  the  piano,  rattles  off  a  brilliant  prelude.  Strange 
that  it  can  be  the  same  fingers  which  immediately  after  draw  forth 
soft,  pathetic  sounds.  What  a  pretty  picture  she  makes,  sitting 
there  in  a  muslin  dress  of  a  delicate  shade  of  green,  the  open  sleeves 
showing  her  rounded  arms,  and  the  color  contrasting  with  the  pure 
whiteness  of  her  skin. 

A  ray  of  sunshine,  beaming  through  a  western  window,  falls  on 
the  golden  hair,  lighting  it  up  and  bringing  out  the  auburn  tint  to 
perfection.  The  entrance  of  Alva  Ingolsby  is  unnoticed  as  he  comes 
in,  looking  better  than  when  last  seen,  for  to  him,  as  to  most 
men,  full-dress  is  becoming.  He  also  gives  a  swift  glance  around, 
and,  perhaps,  a  morsel  of  my  dress  peeps  from  under  the  curtains, 
or  it  may  only  be  instinct  that  causes  him  to  lift  it  and  discover  to  view 
my  old  faded  self.  A  smile,  and  he  drops  the  curtain  into  place 
again  without  a  word,  turns  toward  another  window,  and  regards  the 
scene  without.  Lucy  stops,  turns,  sees  him,  and  then  recommences 
her  music.  But  now  her  touch  is  weak  and  less  decided,  and  per- 
haps the  air  is  not  pleasing  to  that  dark  figure  in  the  window,  for  it 
draws  him  not  towards  it.  A  moment,  and  then  it  changes  to- 
tones  sharp,  quick,  and  defiant — a  sort  of  noli  me  tangere  air.  All 
is  but  dumb  pantomime,  yet  how  expressive  ! 

Now  appears  on  the  scene,  gliding  into  the  room  in  a  most  lady- 
like manner,  my  Lady  Egerton,  who  takes  a  mirror-studied  pose  on 
one  of  the  sofas.  As  she  reclines  there,  dressed  in  black  velvet  and 
2 


18  BEHIND   THE  ARRAS. 

diamonds,  the  former  falling  in  soft,  graceful  folds,  she  looks  a  very 
handsome  woman,  and  knows  that  she  does.  Of  medium  height, 
well-formed,  but  decidedly  inclined  to  embonpoint;  with  skin  smooth 
and  un wrinkled;  eyes  and  hair  black;  teeth  white  and  even,  she 
seems  no  more  than  forty,  though  in  reality  some  years  older.  Of 
a  phlegmatic  disposition,  she  has  glided  through  life,  as  she  now 
glides  through  a  room,  always  ladylike,  always  placid,  allowing 
nothing  to  enter  her  mind  that  may  ruffle  that  brow  or  whiten  those 
locks. 

The  perfect  antithesis  of  herself  is  her  husband,  who  comes  bust- 
ling into  the  room  with  a  little,  trotting  step.  A  small,  wiry  man 
is  he,  quick  and  energetic,  with  a  frequent  motion  of  the  head — 
bird-like  in  its  briskness  of  movement.  His  hair,  though  snowy 
white,  still  strangely  retains  its  stiffness,  having  none  of  that  soft 
look  so  beautiful  in  grey  hair,  but  being  cropped  close  to  the  head, 
stands  bristling  forth  in  all  directions,  covering  every  inch  of  scalp, 
and  leaving  not  one  bald  spot,  in  spite  of  his  sixty-five  years.  His 
thick,  overhanging,  and  grizzled  eyebrows,  which  seem  originally 
to  have  run  at  each  other  defiantly,  are  now  locked  in  a  close  em- 
brace, leaving  no  space  between,  and  almost  hiding  a  pair  of  small, 
piercing,  blue  eyes. 

With  his  negligent  style  of  dress,  he  looks  just  what  he  is — an 
eccentric  old  gentleman;  unfortunately  one  who  has  plenty  of  means 
to  carry  out  his  odd  whims  and  fancies.  Were  he  a  poor  man, 
much  superfluous  energy  would  be  carried  off  in  that  grandly  sub- 
lime work  of  most  men's  lives — money-making. 

As  it  is  he  is  nothing  but  a  busy  idler,  always  perfectly  happy 
when  working  over  something  that  amounts  to  nothing  in  the  end. 
To-day,  he  has  been  overseeing  the  erection  of  a  sty,  built  "with 
all  the  modern  conveniences,"  for  his  favorite  Berkshires;  and,  oc- 
casionally, in  his  impatience  to  have  it  completed,  lending  a  hand 
himself,  as  he  now  informs  the  company,  to  my  Lady's  great  dis- 
gust— disgust,  shown  by  a  most  energetic  (for  her)  curl  of  the  lip, 
and  tapping  of  one  pretty  foot.  In  such  glowing  terms  does  the 
old  gentleman  speak  of  his  latest  hobby,  that  one  can  almost  im- 
agine him  describing  some  modern  villa  or  Castle  of  the  Graces. 
How  much  more  acceptable  would  the  pearl  be  to  a  poor  family  of 
the  village!  Interesting  as  the  subject  is,  yet  the  thought  of  dinner 
is  still  more  so  after  his  afternoon's  labor,  and  now  he  starts  up, 
pulling  out  his  watch  much  in  the  style  of  Mr.  Weller,  Senior,  and 
announces  in  quick  sharp  tones : 

"After  seven,  and  that  child  not  here  yet! "  (Well  grown  "  child  " 
think  I  in  my  corner.)  "Think  I'll  advise  her  to  begin  dressing  in 


BEHIND   THE  ARRAS.  19 

time — before  breakfast  might  do — might  give  her  enough  time," 
and  he  walks  with  a  fretful  air  to  the  fireplace.  "Or,  I'll  give  her 
some  work  to  do  that  will  furnish  her  with  an  appetite  when  dinner 
time  comes/' falling  with  a  thump  into  an  arm-chair.  "Suppose 
you  give  her  a  blowing  up,  old  lady/'  as  he  jumps  up  again,  and 
takes  a  few  quick  turns. 

I,  in  my  hiding-place,  fancy  Lady  Egerton  blowing  one  up;  Alva 
looks  whimsical  and  whispers  to  Lucy  who  laughs  and  glances  to- 
wards the  curtain  that  conceals  me. 

"  You  appear  to  be  jolly,  young  lady,"  says  her  papa,  "  when  you 
are  rny  age,  your  good  humour  will  depend  more  on  a  good  dinner, 
than  it  does  now.  Agnes,  you  must  really  lecture  Miss  Julia  Lif- 
ford,  for  you  women  know  best  how  to  apply  that  lash — the  tongue. 
In  a  quarrel,  your  sly  little  under-cuts  are  much  more  effective  than 
our  strong  rough  language/'  and  he  rushes  to  one  of  the  windows. 

Should  he  come  to  mine!  I  tremble  and  wish  myself  well  out  of 
this  scrape. 

A  few  more  brisk  turns,  and  he  stands  in  the  centre  of  the  room, 
with  hands  in  pockets,  eyes  bent  on  the  carpet,  and  quotes  in  a  low 
tone: 

"The  lords  of  Creation,  men  we  call, 

And  they  think  they  rule  the  whole : 
But  they're  much  mistaken,  after  all, 
For  they're  under  woman's  control." 

and  with  another  drawing  forth  of  the  watch,  makes  directly  for  my 
place  of  concealment. 

A  moment  he  stands,  like  Nemesis,  with  arm  raised  upholding 
the  curtain;  with  brow  puckered  and  lips  pursed;  then  just  as  din- 
ner is  announced,  with  a  sort  of  dive  he  stoops  for  my  hand,  and 
tucking  it  under  his  arm  without  a  word,  strides  to  the  door,  crosses 
the  broad  hall  to  the  dining-room,  and  dropping  me  by  my  seat, 
takes  his  place  at  the  foot  of  the  table,  leaving  the  others  to  follow 
at  their  leisure. 


20  BEHIND  THE  ARRAS. 


CHAPTER  III. 

Let  it  serve  for  table-talk. 

—  Merchant  of  Venice:  Act  III,  Scene  5. 

UE  last  day  of  quiet;"  remarks  Lady  Egerton,  breaking  a 
long  silence,  as  the  soup  is  removed.  "  To-morrow  our  first 
guests  of  the  season  will  arrive.  You  know  we  do  not  look 
upon  you  as  a  guest,  Mr.  Ingolsby,  but  quite  as  one  of  the 
family." 

' '  Thanks.  But  I  am  afraid  your  ladyship  thinks  that  I  have 
made  myself  so  much  at  home,  as  to  have  become  a  most  unpleasant 
member  of  your  family. " 

"  No,  she  doesn't,  Ingolsby!"  cries  Sir  Griffith.  "  She  told  me  in 
confidence  the  other  day,  that  you  were  the  only  man  she  ever  saw, 
who  did  not  require  more  waiting  upon  than  any  two  women.  That 
wife  of  mine  is  so  fond  of  quiet,  that  I  often  wonder  how  she 
ever — " 

"  Married  you,  Griffith  ?  It  is  strange,  is  it  not?  Perhaps  I 
hoped  to  smooth  out  the  wrinkles  in  your  character,  not  suspecting 
that  they  were  too  deep  to  be  effaced.  I  don't  know  what  will  be- 
come of  the  county,  now,  that  that  other  oddity,  Jolliffe  Tufnell, 
has  returned  to  the  neighborhood." 

"He  is  a  most  unprepossessing  man  to  me,"  says  Lucy;  "and 
yet  he's  quite  a  privileged  character,  I  believe;  invited  everywhere, 
just  because  he  has  courage  to  set  the  world  at  defiance,  and  do  as 
he  pleases.  I  suppose  people  look  on  him  as  a  sort  of  fascinating 
horror." 

"  Do  you  know  the  story  of  his  life,  Miss  Egerton  ?"  asks  Ingolsby. 
"  I  have  often  heard  it  hinted  at,  but  110  more." 

"  Oh,  yes,  I  heard  it  long  before  I  knew  him.  When  he  was  a 
young  man  of  about  twenty,  he  was  very  wild  and  unruly,  but  of  an 
exceedingly  generous  disposition;  and  being  the  cause  of  a  friend's 
becoming  involved  in  a  quarrel  with  some  professional  gambler,  a 
noted  shot,  took  the  whole  affair  upon  his  own  shoulders.  The 
friend,  I  forget  his  name,  was  weak  and  unmanly  enough  to  allow 
this,  and  the  two  met.  Jolliffe  Tufnell  was  slightly  wounded  in  the 
cheek,  and  still  bears  the  scar;  but  the  other  was  killed  on  the  spot. 
It  has  always  been  a  wonder  to  me  how  men  of  sense  can  call  these 
meetings  '  affairs  of  honor/  Is  murder  honorable?" 

"  Don't  talk  of  what  you  don't  understand,  my  child,"  interrupted 
Sir  Griffith;  "  no  woman  can  comprehend  a  man's  feelings  where  his 
honor  is  involved." 


BEHIND   THE  ARRAS.  21 

"Perhaps  not,  papa;  but  I  at  least  understand  this  much:  Mur- 
der is  always  in  the  intent  to  kill,  and  what  man  with  a  human 
nature  can  stand  up  before  his  antagonist's  pistol,  and  not  have  the 
wish  pass  through  his  mind,  though  he  may  not  acknowledge  it  to 
himself,  that  he  may  not  be  the  one  to  fall,  but,  necessarily,  his 
adversary.  In  my  mind,  it  requires  more  courage  to  brave  public 
opinion,  and  refuse  to  fight  a  duel,  than  to  stand  up  as  a  target  to  be 
fired  at." 

"If  the  world  was  arranged  by  such  as  you,  Lucy,"  he  replies, 
"there  would  be  no  crime,  and  peace  would  reign  as  it  should  no- 
where but  in  Paradise.  This,  unfortunately,  is  not  Paradise;  there- 
fore, live  in  hopes  of  entering  it  some  day,  and  take  things  as  they 
are  for  the  present.  Have  you  anything  more  to  say  of  Mr.  Jolliffe 
Tufnell?" 

"A  very  little  more/'  she  says,  looking  a  trifle  abashed,  and  yet, 
with  the  air  of  one  unconvinced,  and  firm  in  her  own  opinion. 
"He  became  gloomy  and  peculiar  from  that  time,  and  deserting  his 
gay  companions,  has  led  a  wandering,  lonely  life,  until  quite  lately, 
when  he  surprised  every  one  by  settling  down  on  his  estate.  One 
cause  of  the  great  change  in  him  was  the  loss  of  his  affianced  bride, 
who  refused  to  marry  him  after  the  duel — and  who  can  blame  her — 
for  oh,  the  horror  of  being  united  to  one  with  the  stain  of  blood 
upon  his  soul!" 

A  pause;  for  Lucy's  remarks  have  brought  painful  memories  to 
some  of  us.  I  glance  up  presently  from  my  plate,  and  catch  a 
glimpse  of  a  dusky  flush  dying  out  of  Ingolsby's  face,  leaving  it 
very,  very  pale.  Can  it  be  that  he  was  ever  a  party  to  one  of  these 
affairs?  It  is  possible;  for  nothing  is  known  of  him  beyond  the 
facts  that  he  is  an  Englishman  who  lived  many  years  in  America, 
from  whence  he  brought  letters  of  introduction  from  lawyers  of 
eminence  to  his  own  countrymen,  standing  high  in  the  same  pro- 
fession. He  shows  no  desire  to  break  the  silence,  and  after  a  short 
interval,  Sir  Griffith  asks,  in  a  constrained  tone: 

"Is  Squire  Strong  coming,  Agnes?" 

"Oh,  of  course,"  Lady  Egerton  answers.  "We  expect  Lady 
Caroline  Hamilton,  you  know,  and  what  pleasure  for  her  would 
there  be  without  her  rough  admirer  with  his  eight  thousand  a  year?" 

"And  we  are  to  have  the  German  heiress,  Miss  Van  Praet,"  ex- 
claims Sir  Griffith.  "  Set  your  cap  for  her,  Ingolsby,  and  live  in 
idleness  the  rest  of  your  life." 

"I'm  too  much  afraid  of  her  guardian,  with  his  scowling  brows 
and  aggressive  features, "is  the  response.  "  Nothing  but  a  title  will 
do  for  him." 


22  BEHIND   THE  A  ERAS. 

"  '  Sits  the  wind  in  that  corner? ' "  quotes  Sir  Griffith.  "  Well,  the 
charming  heiress  will  find  plenty  here  to  exercise  her  powers  of  fas- 
cination upon.  Let  me  see.  There  will  be  Lord  Eversley,  with  his 
eternal  lisp,  and  Lord  Mortland,  Sir  Henry  Beresford,  and  Lord 
Lennox,  all  quite  willing  to  barter  their  freedom  for  a  check-book." 

"  Why  don't  you  give  him  a  list  of  the  ladies,  papa?"  Lucy  asks, 
"and  let  him  judge  what  chance  of  pleasure  there  is  in  store  for 
himself." 

"Because,  my  dear,  when  I  mention  a  lady's  name,  I  begin  to 
think  of  the  charming  owner,  and  forget  the  rest  of  the  story." 

* e  Then  it  is  to  be  hoped  you  will  place  your  wife  at  the  head  of 
all  lists  of  fair  ones,"  I  remark,  laughingly.  "You  tell  us,  Lucy, 
what  ladies  are  coming." 

"  Oh,  the  greatest  number,"  she  replies,  checking  them  off  on  her 
fingers.  "  Lady  Fullerton,  and  her  daughter  Jessie;  such  a  pert 
little  thing,  but  good-hearted  in  the  extreme;  Lady  Fortescue  and 
her  three  daughters — " 

"Such  beauties,  Ingolsby!"  interrupts  Sir  Griffith;  "tall  and 
gracefully  slender  as  lily  stalks,  with  loveliest  shade  of  amber  com- 
plexions, and  blooming  noses." 

"For  shame,  papa!  They  cannot  help  their  appearance,  poor 
things.  Then  there  are  Emily  Wilbraham  and  Ruth  Ferrers — 

"  Dashing,  gentlemanly  young  wromen,"  comments  Sir  Griffith. 

"And  Lady  Juno  Althorp — " 

"  On  the  look-out  for  a  third — take  care,  Alva." 

' '  Lady  Lyndhurst — " 

'  'And  her  daughters,"  croaks  Sir  Griffith. 

"  Maud,  Mabel,  and  Mildred,"  continues  Lucy. 

"Bather  pretty  girls,"  adds  Sir  Griffith,  in  a  'faint-praise'  tone; 
"  but  most  exasperatingly  alike,  in  appearance,  character  and  dress. 
No  man  would  care  to  marry  one  of  them,  and  feel  that  two  Sther 
fellows  were  as  lucky  as  himself.  One  likes  to  think  that  one  has 
carried  off  the  prize,  and  not  left/ac  similes  for  other  less-deserving 
mortals.  Eh,  Ingolsby?  But  go  on  with  your  list,  Lucy,  and  ban- 
ish that  deprecating  look." 

With  a  smile  struggling  on  her  lips,  she  proceeds: 

"  Mrs.  Archibald  Smythe,  Miss  Wilhelmina  Sinythe,  Miss  An- 
dromica  Smythe,  Miss  Lavinia  Smythe  and  Miss  Araminta  Smythe." 

"  '  Ye  gods  and  little  fishes/  what  an  array!  All  vitality  and  char- 
acter crushed  out  of  them  by  the  weight  of  their  very  names,  poor 
things.  What  induced  you  to  ask  such  namby-pamby  creatures, 
Agnes?  To  form  the  necessary  background,  I  suppose,  to  show  off 
the  other  young  ladies  to  advantage — useful  in  their  way,  anyhow. 


BEHIND   THE  ARRAS.  23 

But  where  are  you  going  to  put  them  all  ?  They  will  be  frightened 
out  of  their  wits  at  some  of  our  ghostly  old  rooms."  Then  a  twinkle 
comes  into  his  eyes,  and  he  asks  rather  abruptly:  "  Do  you  believe 
in  ghosts,  Alva,  my  boy  ?" 

"  Well— really — Sir  Griffith,"  is  the  hesitating  answer,  as  aston- 
ishment takes  the  place  of  amusement  on  Ingolsby's  face,  "the 
question  is  so  unexpected,  I  hardly  know — " 

"'  Know  thyself/  says  Shakspeare,"  from  Sir  Griffith.  "So — 
you  don't  know  on  the  instant  what  you  believe,  eh  ?  And  you  want 
time  to  remember  what  your  opinion  is,  before  you  say  black  is 
black,  eh?  Why,  you  must  have  your  thoughts  as  firmly  packed 
away  as  those  of  Mr.  Toots." 

"Don't  be  so  hard  on  him  as  all  that,  papa,"  says  Lucy;  "they 
are  only  a  little  rusty  for  want  of  use  dowrr  here  in  our  stupid  old 
place." 

"And  pray,  who  is  most  unkind  and  hard  in  their  remarks  now, 
Miss  Egerton,"  asks  Ingolsby.  "  Sir  Griffith,  now  that  I  have  had 
time  to  dive  into  the  depths  of  my  mental  luggage-room,  I  find  the 
belief  in  ghosts  quite  snugly  stowed  away." 

"Oh,  horrible!"  shudders  Lady  Egerton:  "What  could  have 
induced  you  to  bring  up  such  a  dismal  subject,  my  dear?" 

"  Something  that  I  chanced  to  hear  to-day;  a  rumor;  just  a  little 
trifle  about  a  wandering  spirit,  who  clanks  her  chain  at  the  witching 
time  of  night.  That  is,  I  don't  quite  remember  the  sex,  but  it  must 
be  a  female,  for  they  say  it  is  troublesome  and  noisy,"  answers  Sir 
Griffith,  and  continues:  "  Julia,  did  you  ever  hear  of  any  tradition 
or  legend  connected  with — a — any  portion  of  our  mansion?" 

"What,  papa?"  exclaims  Lucy,  "a  legend — this  house?  Oh, 
do  tell  us  all  about  it,  please." 

I,  rather  puzzled  and  a  little  alarmed,  answer:  "No,  Sir  Grif- 
fith, I  don't  remember  to  have  heard  of  any  legend  in  our  family. 
In  fact  I  have  always  been  rather  sorry  that  we  had  no  romantically 
haunted  chamber,  or  anything  of  that  sort.  But  why  do  you  ask?" 

"  Perhaps  you  will  feel  rather  sorry  for  another  reason  before 
long,  my  dear,"  he  says,  with  a  slight  twinkle  in  his  eye.  "  But  In- 
golsby, you  say  that  you  believe  in  spirits;  let  us  hear  your  reasons." 

"I  have  none  worth  giving.  I  assure  you,  sir.  I  never  saw  a 
ghost.  I  never  knew  anybody  who  ever  saw  one,  and  yet  I  cannot 
but  believe  in  them.  In  this  way:  I  do  not  believe  that  they  are 
able  to  speak  to  mortals  either  with  words  or  rappings;  but  that  the 
image  of  a  person  who  is  dead  can  be  seen  by  the  living,  I  do  be- 
lieve. Whether  the  so-called  spirit  is  the  departed  soul  or  a  name- 
less something  conjured  up  by  the  brain,  and  only  perceptible  to  the 


24  BEHIND   THE  ARRAS. 

one  mind,  of  course  no  one  can  tell.  My  theory  is  this :  The  mind 
when  excited,  sometimes  unconsciously  falls  into  a  sudden  sleep  or 
stupor,  and  then  the  form  of  a  loved  or  hated  one  who  is  gone  ap- 
pears as  in  a  dream,  when  one  sees  people  life-like  yet  unnatural. 
Only  that  we  know  when  we  have  dreamed,  but  in  this  case  of  the 
stupor  of  the  brain  we  are  not  aware  of  having  lost  consciousness 
for  a  moment,  but  the  ghost  is  said  to  '  vanish '  when  it  is  simply 
the  mind  recoveringritself." 

"  A  very  good  theory,  my  dear  fellow,"  approvingly  remarks  Sir 
Griffith;  "  but  one  that  would  not  at  all  suit  the  Spiritualists,  eh?" 

"  How  can  you  call  a  theory  'good'  on  such  a  subject,  Griffith?" 
says  his  wife.  "  Though  I  must  confess  that  I  consider  Mr.  Ingols- 
by's  idea  far  superior  to  the  vulgar  superstitions  about  those  nasty 
cold,  clammy,  noiseless'  creatures,  who  have  not  the  manners  to  re- 
main outside  of  a  locked  door." 

"Why  it  is  a  perfect  theory,  mamma,"  says  Lucy,  with  anima- 
tion; "  just  what  has  been  in  my  mind  this  long  time,  only  I  could 
not  find  words  to  express  it." 

"A  good  reason  for  its  perfection,  pet,  its  having  been  in  your 
sensible  little  head,"  rejoins  her  mother. 

A  pout  and  a  toss  of  the  sensible  little  head,  is  the  only  answer. 

"But  good  folks  all/''  say  I,  "you  seem  to  have  forgotten  the 
cause  of  this  discussion.  Tell  us,  cousin  Griffith,  of  what  you  were 
thinking  when  you  frightened  us  all  with  your  dreadfully  mysterious 
question :  '  Do  you  believe  in  ghosts  ?'  " 

"Oh,  nothing,  nothing/3  answers  he,  rising  from  the  table,  the 
cloth  by  this  time  having  been  removed;  "that  is,  nothing  of  any 
consequence,  only — I  don't  care  to  smoke  just  now,  Ingolsby,  so 
you  can  accompany  the  ladies  to  the  drawing-room,  if  you  have  no 
taste  for  a  solitary  weed."  He  is  at  the  door  now,  and  turning 
towards  me  with  a  sly  look,  says:  "Only,  Julia,  I  thought  it  but 
right  to  warn  you  in  case  that  you  should  hear  any  uncommon 
noises  in  the  wing  to  the  left  of  your  rooms" — and  he  pauses. 

We  all  sit  with  mingled  feelings  of  curiosity  and  horror,  expect- 
ing to  hear  something  that  will  make  our  blood  run  cold;  I  wonder- 
ing why  a  goblin  should  choose  my  neighborhood  of  all  others, 
when  he  opens  the  door  and  goes  out,  but  before  closing  it,  puts  in 
his  head  and  continues,  "I  have  given  orders  for  some  alterations 
to  be  made  there,  and  the  men  will  soon  be  at  work." 

His  peculiar  chuckling  laugh  is  heard  as  he  passes  the  open 
window,  while  we  simultaneously  burst  into  a  chorus  of  hearty 
laughter — all  but  Lady  Egerton  who  smiles  blandly — and  I  know 
full  well  that  I  have  received  my  punishment  for  that  shocking  be- 
havior before  dinner. 


BEHIND   THE  ARRAS.  25 


CHAPTER  IV. 

Fate  is  above  us  all; 

We  struggle,  but  what  matters  our  endeavor? 
Our  doom  is  gone  beyond  our  own  recall; 

May  we  deny  or  mitigate  it?    Never! 

—  L.  E.  L. 

ATEB  in  the  evening,  when  Sir  Griffith  has  returned  from 
his  twilight  ramble,  looking  as  innocent  as  possible  of  ever 
having  done  an  unkind  action;  and  while  Lucy  and  In- 
golsby  are  deeply  engaged  at  the  piano  over  snatches  of 
pretty  music,  his  rich  baritone  and  her  highly  cultivated  mezzo 
soprano  occasionally  blending  in  a  duet,  the  question  is  mooted  be- 
tween the  other  three  members  of  our  party  of  five :  In  what  manner 
shall  Lucy  Egerton's  coming  /^'-day  be  celebrated? 

"Let  us  have  a  good  old  fashioned  dance  on  the  lawn,"  proposes 
Sir  Griffith,  "  with  tables  set  in  the  grounds  for  the  peasantry.  On 
such  an  occasion  they  should  have  as  much  enjoyment  as  their 
betters." 

"  That  is  all  very  well  in  theory,  Griffith,"  returns  his  wife,  as  she 
reclines  on  a  sofa,  and  fans  herself  languidly,  "  but  you  fail  to  take 
into  consideration  that  it  is  more  than  likely  to  rain,  and  then,  how 
are  we  to  entertain  our  guests  in  this  gloomy  old  house  on  a  wet 
day?  And  even  if  it  prove  fine  weather,  still,  remaining  in  the 
open  air  with  thin  dresses,  which,  of  course,  would  have  to  be  worn, 
we  should  all  catch  cold." 

"Like  Dundreary's  'birds  of  a  feather,'  eh?  "Well,  Agnes,  sup- 
pose you  think  of  something  better  suited  to  you  birds  of  gay  but 
airy  plumage." 

' '  If  you  try  to  remain  quiet  for  a  moment,  Griffith,  I'll  tell  you 
what  has  been  in  my  mind  all  along.  Do  sit  in  the  chair,  not  on 
the  edge.  You  look  like  Sampson  Brass  sliding  off  one  of  Quilp's 
uncomfortable  seats." 

"  Much  obliged,  my  dear,"  gathering  himself  up  and  sinking  into 
the  depths  of  a  large  arm  chair,  which  almost  conceals  his  small 
frame.  "  Now,  I  suppose,  you  will  say  I  resemble  old  grandfather 
Smallweed." 

"You  do  very  much,  dear.  However,  it  doesn't  matter,  for  you 
never  could  appear  in  a  comfortable  attitude.  This  is  my  idea,  and 
it  will  be  so  much  less  trouble  than  anything  else.  Have  a  large 
dinner  party,  and  in  the  evening  let  the  young  people  dance." 

"  And  who  the  deuce  cares  for  trouble,  or  anything  of  the  kind, 


26  BEHIND   THE  ARRAS. 

on  an  occasion  like  tins,  eh?  "  is  the  excited  answer,  as  he  struggles 
frt>m  the  depths  of  his  chair,  and  stamps  about  like  a  caged  lion. 
"  I'm  sure  I  don't,  old  lady;  and  I  don't  propose  to  have  any  hum- 
drum old  fogy  dinner  party  on  my  child's  birthday,  you  may  be 
sure.  If  you  can't  think  of  anything  better  than  that,  why,  I'll 
make  a  bargain  to  pay  the  doctor's  bill  for  every  one  who  catches 
cold,  and  just  see  if  it  won't  be  a  success." 

"  How  very  unrest  you  are,"  is  the  cool  remark  from  his  wife. 
1  'Allow  me  to  assume  your  prerogative  of  quoting,  my  dear  hus- 
band, and  remark  that  this  scheme  of  yours  is  '  the  insane  root  that 
takes  the  reason  prisoner.'  '7 

"  Madam!  "  pausing  before  her,  "permit  me  to  reply  in  the  same 
manner,  '  though  this  be  madness,  yet  there's  method  in  it.' '; 

"May  I  make  a  suggestion,  Sir  Griffith?"  I  inquire,  anxious  to 
stop  the  discussion. 

"Oh,  you  can  make  as  many  as  you  please,  but  I  won't  promise 
to  conform  to  them/'  is  the  brusque  answer  as  he  resumes  his  walk. 
"  Do  you  know,  sir,  I  should  rather  like  your  plan,  if  it  were  not 
for  Lady  Egerton's  sensible " 

"Fiddlesticks!"  finishes  he. 

I  continue:  "I  have  always  thought  that  in  this  rambling  old 
place  a  masquerade " 

"  The — very — thing!  "  interrupts  he,  emphasizing  each  word  with 
a  resounding  clap  of  the  hands,  that  makes  his  wife  wince,  .and 
causes  the  two  singers  to  turn  from  their  music. 

"What's  the  matter,  papa?"  Lucy  asks. 

"  Only  a  little  discussion  brought  to  a  strangely  happy  conclu- 
sion, my  dear.  But  you  go  on  with  your  thrumming,  and  send  that 
young  man  over  here;  we  want  his  opinion  on  a  matter  of  import- 
ance. Don't  look  so  doleful;  I'll  return  him  safe  and  unhurt  in 
half  a  minute." 

"Why,  you  naughty  papa/'  she  says,  with  cheeks  flushing; 
"  how  can  you  have  a  secret  from  your  own  child,"  and  turns  away 
to  her  "thrumming." 

Alva  joins  us  in  our  corner,  and  stands  awaiting  the  pleasure  of 
his  host. 

"  What  may  the  knotty  question  be  that  I'm  to  have  the  honor 
of  deciding?"  he  asks. 

"Hear,  hear!"  cries  Sir  Griffith.  "Lucy,  this  young  man  is 
making  dreadfully  bad  puns  on  your  words." 

"  How  could  he  do  otherwise  with  such  poor  material?"  she  re- 
plies, glancing  over  her  shoulder. 

"  Miss  Egerton  means  that  her  words  are  so  perfect  as  to  be  un- 


BEHIND   THE  ARRAS.  27 

susceptible  of  improvement,  and  that  is  why  my  pun,  unpremed- 
itated I  assure  you,  was  so  lacking  in  merit/'  explains  Alva. 

"  That's  right,  always  pay  a  compliment  when  you  have  a  chance, 
my  boy/' says  Sir  Griffith,  "flatter  in  the  right  way,  at  the  right 
time,  and  in  large  doses,  and  you'll  be  a  favorite  with  the  women. '; 

"Very  true,"  adds  Lady  Egerton,  "but  the  great  difficulty  is  to 
hit  the  right  time  and  way.  A  flattering  remark  had  better  be  left 
unsaid  than  spoken  in  a  bungling  fashion." 

Were  it  not  for  her  ladyship's  good  humoured  smile,  one  might 
imagine  a  sly  hit  at  Ingolsby's  calembour,  and  accompanying  com- 
pliment. 

"Eight  again,"  returns  her  husband.  "  However,  it  is  not  the 
art  of  pleasing  we  wish  to  discuss,  but  a  question  less  abstruse. 
Now,  Ingolsby,"  lowering  his  voice,  "we  want  to  celebrate  Lucy's 
birthday  in  a  suitable  style.  My  proposition  of  a  fete  champetre  is 
denounced  by  my  old  woman  here,  with  remarks  on  the  uncertainty 
of  the  weather,  and  the  certainty  of  our  all  catching  colds.  She 
has  no  more  romance  in  her  composition  than  a  modern  young  lady, 
but  wishes  to  have  a  stiff,  formal  dinner  party,  forsooth.  Why,  the 
very  thought  of  one  makes  my  hair  more  on  end  than  ever,"  running 
his  fingers  with  a  whimsical  look  through  his  bristling  locks.  "  This 
sensible  creature  here,"  patting  my  head,  "suggests  a  masquerade 
which  strikes  my  fancy;  and  yours  too,  Agnes,  I'm  sure.  For  if 
you  don't  want  trouble,  what  is  easier  than  to  bid  your  guests,  and 
don  the  skin  of  some  unlucky  ancient  who  can  be  murdered  for  the 
occasion  without  weapons  or  blood-spilling.  What  say  you,  Alva; 
or  can  you  think  of  anything  better  yourself?" 

"Nothing  could  be  better,  sir,  and  it  is  sure  to  give  pleasure  to 
the  young  lady  herself.  But  by-the-by,  I  heard  her  express  a  liking 
for  private  theatricals  the  other  day,  and  why  not  let  the  most  in- 
terested person  choose  for  herself?" 

"But  my  dear  fellow,  we  wish  to  give  her  a  surprise.  Let  me 
see  though,"  pondering,  with  his  forefinger  on  his  nose.  "Yes, 
she  shall  decide!"  He  winks,  takes  out  his  pocket-book,  and  after 
scribbling  a  few  words,  tears  the  leaf  into  strips,  which  he  places  in 
a  small  Japanese  cup  from  an  etagere,  and  going  over  to  Lucy,  says: 
"  Here  child,  draw  jour  fete.  Ha-ha !  but  for  your  life  don't  read  it." 

"My  fate!  Why  papa,  what's  all  this  about?  You  surely  don't 
wish  me  to  tempt  Fate  without  learning  its  edict  ?  That's  hardly 
fair,  is  it,  Mr.  Ingolsby  ?  " 

"  Ingolsby  will  tell  you  that  c  all's  fair  in  love  and  war/  and — 
don't  blush,  my  dear — this  is  a  case  of  great  show  of  love  on  my  part 
towards  an  ungrateful  little  baggage." 


28  BEHIND   THE  AREAS. 

"  But  papa  dear,  I'd  rather  not  draw.  I  don't  like  chances  of  any 
kind;  not  even  one  so  simple  as  this." 

' '  Nonsense,  Lucy,  don't  be  foolish.  I  bid  you  draw,  and  you  are 
simply  to  carry  out  the  order  of  '  children,  obey  your  parents,'  which 
is  to  be  found  in  some  good  book,  and  '  when  foumd,'  et  cetera,  et 
cetera." 

"  Please,  papa,  don't  ask  me.  I  have  a  prejudice  against  anything 
of  this  sort,  and  believe  it  has  more  influence  on  one's  life  than  is 
imagined.  It  might  perhaps  have  an  effect  on  mine — an  unlucky 
effect." 

"  Don't  be  ridiculous,  child.  Of  course  it  will  have  an  effect.  Be 
the  cause  of  spoiling  your  dress,  perhaps — which  I  shall  have  to 
replace — and  in  the  new  one  you  captivate  some  fine  cavalier  who 
falls  in  love  at  first  sight.  So  romantic,  you  know — not  a  bit  un- 
lucky— for  I'm  not  an  old  tyrant,  and  will  not  carry  out  the  plot  by 
forcing  you  to  marry  him  against  your  will.  Don't  waste  time — " 
this  a  trifle  sternly. 

"  No,  no,  papa,  I  had  rather  not.  I  made  up  my  mind  once  never 
to  tempt  fate  to  do  me  an  ugly  turn,  and  I  never  will." 

She  turns  to  the  music  stand  to  find  a  sheet  of  music,  and  Sir 
Griffith  still  holds  forth  the  cup,  an  obstinate,  angry  look  about  his 
mouth. 

"Are  you  gone  daft,  child?" 

"Not  that  I  am  aware  of,  papa.  Only  we  all  have  our  little 
prejudices,  and  this  is  one  of  mine." 

' '  I'm  sure  Ingolsby  here  would  much  prefer  witnessing  the  real 
thing,  than  this  little  parody  of  Shakspeare.  '  Much  ado,'  indeed, 
and  '  nothing  '  with  a  vengeance." 

"  I  am  afraid  I  shall  lose  in  your  estimation,  Sir  Griffith,  when  I 
say  that  I  have  actually  never  seen  the  play,"  says  Ingolsby,  as  he 
turns  over  the  music  upon  the  piano,  with  evident  disrelish  for  this 
discussion.  "In  truth,"  he  adds,  laughingly,  "Shakspeare  is  not 
much  of  a  favorite  with  me." 

"  Your  want  of  appreciation  is  nothing  to  boast  of,  young  man. 
Come  now,  Lucy,  stop  fussing  over  that  music,  and  do  as  you're 
bid.  I  will  take  all  the  responsibility  of  your  broken  vow  upon  my 
own  shoulders."  She  looks  up  hesitatingly.  "  No  more  nonsense, 
girl,  I  command  you,"  he  says,  sternly,  and  Sir  Griffith  can  look 
very  stern  when  he  pleases.  A  quick  flush  spreads  over  Lucy's  face. 
She  bites  her  lip  and  throws  back  her  head.  Pride  does  not  relish 
a  command  even  from  a  parent.  But  he  is  her  father  and  she  must 
obey,  so  reluctantly  she  puts  forth  her  hand  and  draws  from  the  cup 
a  slip  of  paper,  which  he  takes  from  her  before  she  can  see  what  is 
written  upon  it. 


BEHIND   THE  AREAS.  29 

"  Bemember  tlien,  papa,  it  was  by  your  order  I  did  this,  not  from 
any  wish  of  ray  own.  On  your  head  rest  the  consequences." 

"As  solemnly  spoken  as  though  you  were  invoking  a  curse  for 
some  foul  crime.  Pretty  thanks  for  all  my  trouble.5' 

"Don't  be  angry,  papa  dear,"  she  pleads,  throwing  her  arms 
round  his  neck  and  kissing  him.  "lam  nervous  this  evening," 
and  she  returns  to  the  piano  and  runs  her  hands  over  the  keys  as 
she  looks  up  at  Ingolsby  with  a  smile,  and  asks  him  if  he  is  tired 
of  music. 

Sir  Griffith  rubbing  his  fingers  on  his  cheek,  and  looking  at  them, 
mutters:  "Tears,  by  Jove!  and  not  mine  either;"  and  as  his  hand 
opens  in  the  act  of  raising  it  to  his  face,  the  chosen  slip  flutters  to 
the  floor,  and  as  it  lies  there  face  upwards,  I  read  the  single  word — 
Masquerade. 

CHAPTER  V. 

Motley 's  the  only  wear. 

—  As  You  Like  It:  Act  II,  Scene  7. 

HE  twenty-fifth  day  of  September,  and  Lucy  Egerton's  nine- 
teenth birthday.  Two  weeks  of  preparation  have  passed 
since  that  evening  on  which  her  fete,  or,  as  she  persists  in 

calling  it  her  fate,  was  decided  upon,  and  to-night  the  mas- 
querade takes  place.  A  busy,  busy  fortnight  has  it  been  to  me,  for 
the  issuing  of  invitations  to  all  the  halls,  lodges,  parks,  courts  and 
granges  in  the  neighborhood;  and  the  preparation  of  my  own  and 
Lucy's  costumes,  without  her  knowledge,  has  been  my  share  of  work. 
We  all  have  endeavored  to  keep  her  in  ignorance  of  the  style  of  en- 
tertainment, but  it  seems  impossible  that  she  cannot  have  guessed 
something  of  the  truth;  for,  as  she  says,  at  her  approach,  "dark 
figures  scuttle  away  like  mice  in  the  wainscot,  leaving  scraps  of  silk 
and  ribbon  to  mark  their  passage,  and  the  whole  house  wears  an 
air  of  most  uncomfortable  mystery,  while  every  one  seems  fully  oc- 
cupied with  their  own  devices."  Perhaps  that  is  the  reason  why 
she  has  not  been  her  own  equably  bright  self,  but  has  alternately 
moped  about  with  drooping  head  and  listless  manner,  or  has  been 
restless  and  brimming  over  with  fun  and  mischief*  Poor  Ingolsby 
has  been  the  patient  subject  of  all  her  pranks,  for  he,  having  post- 
poned his  return  to  town  until  after  the  ball,  and  not  being  a 
woman,  and  'therefore  having  the  making  of  no  dress  for  the  occa- 
sion to  superintend,  has  been  left  to  the  tender  mercies  of  the  ca- 
pricious girl.  They  have  quarreled  perpetually;  that  is,  she  would 
take  offense  at  some  remark,  while  he  would  argue  it  out  for  the 


30  BEHIND   THE  ARRAS. 

mere  sake  of  argument,  not  because  he  thought  himself  in  the  right, 
and  she  would  go  off  in  high  dudgeon,  leaving  him  to  wonder  at 
her  strange  irritability.  Here  is  a  scrap  of  one  of  their  many  dis- 
cussions, as  I  heard  it  through  the  open  windows  of  the  library, 
while  enjoying  the  fresh  air  on  the  balcony  without: 

"  May  I  ask  what  you  have  been  reading,  Miss  Egerton?"  as  the 
noise  is  heard  of  a  book  sliding  into  the  case. 

"  This  is  only  a  book  I  found  on  the  table,"  is  the  answer. 
"Papa  always  feels  uncomfortable  when  one  is  out  of  its  place, 
for  he  says  it  spoils  the  look  of  the  shelves.  Did  you  ever  hear 
such  an  idea?  I  have  been  reading  '  Paradise  Lost' — a  work  that 
I  don't  admire." 

"  Why  ?  It  is  one  of  the  most  beautiful  poems  in  the  English 
language." 

"Yes,  I  acknowledge  that  portions  of  it  are  surpassingly  beauti- 
ful, and  many  passages  ennobling  in  their  tendencies.  But  I  think 
that  Milton  was  exceedingly  wrong,  if  not  a  little  blasphemous,  to 
write  words  of  his  own  imagining  as  being  spoken  by  the  Deity.'7 

"He  was  a  courageous  man  to  do  it,  I  admit,  but  not  blasphem- 
ous, for  they  breathe  forth  a  pure  spirit  of  piety.  "Would  you  be 
willing  to  lose  such  a  work  from  English  literature  for  a  few  such 
squeamish  scruples?" 

"  Indeed,  I  don't  consider  myself  squeamish,  in  the  least.  Were 
those  objectionable  parts  omitted,  the  poem  would  contain  nothing 
to  offend  a  Christian,  and  it  would,  to  my  mind,  be  perfect.  I  do 
not  think  that  religion  should,  as  a  rule,  be  meddled  with  in  either 
poetry  or  romance.  It  should  be  confined  to  books  of  theology." 

"  "Were  I  a  novelist,"  he  says,  "  I  should  not  think  it  a  crime  to 
inculcate  religious  doctrines  between  lighter  subjects  at  every  oppor- 
tunity." 

"You  don't  understand  me,"  she  replies,  "or  rather,  I  have  not  ex- 
pressed myself  properly.  I  mean  that  by  way  of  instructing  their 
readers,  authors  should  not  put  down  in  black  and  white  all  the 
conflicting  doubts  on  questions  of  religion  they  may  see  fit  to  make 
arise  in  the  minds  of  their  characters;  doubts,  which  by  being  read, 
are  impressed  on  the  mind  of  the  reader,  and  are  not  generally  re- 
moved or  counteracted  by  sufficiently  good  and  sound  reasons. 
They  cannot  but  have  a  bad  effect  on  all  but  very  well-balanced 
minds,  and  do  much  harm  by  suggesting  thoughts,  which  might 
never  otherwise  occur  to  us." 

"Very  well;  I  shall  remember  to  give  hints  to  all  my  literary 
friends,  that  the  young  ladies  of  the  present  day  do  not  approve  of 
moral  instruction  in  novels,  but  think  that  all  characters  should  be 


BEHIND   THE  ARRAS.  31 

most  unnaturally  good,  without  any  religious  thoughts  whatever, 
disturbing  the  even  tenor — "  and  the  sentence  is  cut  short  by  a 
sound  very  much  like  the  sharp  closing  of  a  door,  and  is  finished  by 
a  low  laugh  instead  of  words. 

However,  it  is  the  ball  of  which  I  wish  to  speak.  When  I  bring 
Lucy's  dress  to  her  early  in  the  evening,  she  puts  on  a  pretty  little 
look  of  surprise,  very  becoming,  but  not  quite  natural,  I  fear.  Her 
horror  at  my  costume  is  extreme.  A  ragged  black  dress,  mantle  and 
hood,  and  the  wrinkles  on  my  face,  arms  and  neck,  made  with  paint, 
form  a  Witch  of  Endor,  which  she  says  will  be  a  horrible  success. 
Fortunately  she  is  pleased  with  the  choice  of  the  character  I  have 
made  for  her:  that  of  Queen  Cybele.  One  of  the  class  of  flower- 
girls,  I  knew  she  never  would  adopt,  and  selected  this  for  its  digni- 
fied simplicity  of  style.  The  dress  is  a  long-trained,  plain  robe  of 
white  cashmere,  embroidered  around  the  top  of  the  waist  and  bot- 
tom of  the  skirt,  with  a  Greek  pattern  in  gold.  Around  the  cen- 
ter twines  a  myrtle  wreath,  also  in  gold  embroidery.  A  band  of 
gold  encircling  the  wraist  is  engraved  with  lions,  a  symbol  of  Cybele; 
and  the  open  sleeves  are  looped  with  golden  fibula.  A  blue  scarf 
is  fastened  on  the  left  shoulder,  after  the  antique;  its  color  con- 
trasted by  a  broad  band  of  gold  embroidery  in  that  Greek  pattern, 
which  is  supposed  to  have  been  suggested  by  the  waves  of  the  sea. 
On  the  head,  above  the  coronet  of  shining  hair,  rests  a  crown  of 
golden  towers,  and  a  sceptre  and  key  to  be  carried  in  the  hand,  are 
also  emblems  of  Cybele.  She  looks  the  stately  character,  and  the 
dress  is  decidedly  becoming. 

Having  adjusted  her  mask  and  thrown  on  a  white  domino,  she  as- 
sists me  to  don  my  black  one,  and  we  descend  to  the  garden  by  a 
stairway  leading  from  her  suite  of  rooms. 

It  is  a  beautiful  night;  the  moon  in  her  soft  bright  glory  eclipsing 
nearly  every  star,  and  rendering  the  lights  in  the  avenue  almost  use- 
less. We  make  a  circuit  through  the  grounds  without  fear  of  colds, 
that  dread  of  Lady  Egerton's  life,  find  our  carriage  waiting  accord- 
ing to  orders,  in  a  side  path  near  the  avenue,  and  like  invited  guests, 
are  driven  beneath  arches  of  lanterns,  up  to  the  grand  entrance.  It 
is  a  lively,  pretty  scene,  as  the  carriages  deposit  their  muffled  treas- 
ures, and  wheel  off  in  an  opposite  direction,  leaving  room  for  a 
seemingly  endless  stream  to  follow.  We  are  ushered  up  stairs  to 
the  dressing-rooms,  as  though  we  had  not  a  moment  ago  left  the  ad- 
joining apartments,  and  thence  descend  to  the  reception-rooms, 
where  we  are  received  with  a  few  words  of  welcome  by  the  host  and 
hostess,  neither  of  whom  suspect  our  identity.  They  are,  of  course, 
unmasked.  Lady  Egerton  is  queenly  as  Cleopatra;  and  her  pearl 


32  BEHIND   THE  AERAS. 

ornaments  would  be  worthy  mates  to  that  gem  so  famous  in  history. 
Her  dress  is  white  merino,  Egyptian,  of  course,  the  upper  dress 
loose  and  belted  in,  cut  low,  showing  her  beautiful  neck  and  arms, 
and  the  skirt,  with  a  long,  sweeping  train,  both  richly  ornamented 
with  seed  pearls  and  jewels.  A  robe  of  white  tissue,  thickly  stud- 
ded with  stars,  is  fastened  on  the  shoulders,  falling  in  graceful  folds 
to  the  floor;  and  a  tiara  of  pearls  adorns  her  black  hair.  A  pair  of 
dainty  white  and  gold  sandals,  complete  the  custunie.  As  one  be- 
holds the  welcoming  smile  bestowed  upon  each  new  arrival,  one  can 
almost  believe  that  "  age  cannot  wither  "  her. 

Antony  —  Sir  Griffith  Egerton — is,  of  course,  close  at  hand  re- 
ceiving the  guests  with  less  grace,  certainly,  but  in  a  far  heartier 
manner.  His  buff  shirt,  robe,  and  fleshings  are  gorgeous;  his  gray 
hair  is  hidden  in  a  yellow  wig;  his  brows  bound  with  a  white  ribbon, 
and  his  feet  encased  in  sandals.  My  idea  of  Antony  has  always 
been  a  perfect  Apollo,  not  such — but  no  disparaging  remarks  on 
my  host. 

Lucy  does  not  remain  with  me  long,  for  she  is  led  off  by  a  black 
domino  for  the  first  quadrille,  and  I  am  left  to  my  own  devices.  No 
Saul  is  here  to  seek  me  out,  so  I  take  my  place  alone  in  a  recess 
near  the  door,  to  watch  the  scene  and  see  the  people  as  they  enter. 

The  entire  floor  of  this  wing  is  thrown  open  for  the  dancers,  and 
the  long  vistas  formed  by  the  open  doorways  are  dazzling  with  light 
and  splendor. 

Jewels  are  flashing,  and  so  are  bright  eyes  beneath  envious  masks 
that  hide  the  pretty  faces  from  view.  Of  course,  there  is  the  usual 
incongruous  crowd  of  a  masquerade.  Spurs  of  cavaliers  catching 
in  the  gauzy  robes  of  sylphs  and  fairies;  monks  walking  with  girls 
of  the  period;  angels  and  devils  meeting  unconcernedly;  pages  of 
the  time  of  Louis  Quatorze,  and  pages  in  "  buttons;53  flower-girls 
and  "Nights"  circulating  by  the  dozen,  with  numbers  of  domi- 
noes— men  too  lazy  to  act  a  part  for  amusement,  though  ready 
enough  to  do  it  through  life  for  a  good  stake. 

But  it  seems  that  I  am  not  to  enjoy  myself  in  loneliness,  for  here 
comes  Alva  Ingolsby,  to  whom  I  confided  the  secret  of  what  I 
should  wear.  He,  as  he  told  me  he  would  be,  is  the  Man  in  the 
Iron  Mask;  his  dress  a  black  velvet  "  shape,"  with  glazed  calico 
mask. 

"  Do  you  know  who  that  Cybele  is  ?  "  he  asks;  "  she  is  attracting 
universal  attention." 

"Yes,  I  know  most  of  the  people  here,"  I  answer,  "but  I  am  not 
at  liberty  to  tell  their  names." 

"  Why  not,  if  you  have  found  them  out  for  yourself?" 


BEHIND  THE  ARRAS.  33 

"  Oh,  I  am  not  quick  enough  for  that;  and  besides,  I  don't  know 
many  of  their  little  peculiarities." 

"  Then  how  do  you  come  to  recognize  them,  pray?  " 

"  Simply  because  they  told  me  themselves  what  they  would  wear," 
I  reply :  ' '  By  mutual  consent,  and  under  vows  of  strict  secresy , 
many  confided  in  me  that  I  might  warn  them  if  any  two  chose  the 
same  character — a  plan  that  I  proposed  in  order  that  we  might 
avoid  contretemps  and  insure  variety.  You  surely  would  not  have 
me  break  confidence  ?  " 

"Certainly  not,"  he  answers;  "but  at  least  tell  me  who  they  are 
meant  to  represent.  I  am  either  very  stupid,  or  else  that  man  is 
so  badly  dressed  that  I  cannot  make  out  whether  he  thinks  himself 
a  Michael  Feeney  or  a  Uriah  Heep." 

"  He  is  not  one  of  my  confidants,  and  the  characters  are  so  much 
alike  that  it  is  hard  to  determine;  but,  judging  from  the  hand  so 
often  on  the  chin,  I  should  say  he  was  the  very  '  umble,'  and  very 
clammy  Uriah  Heep." 

"  There  is  another  of  Dickens'  characters,"  says  Ingolsby,  "  a 
Dolly  Yarden.  I  wonder  why  none  of  the  ladies  try  a  Miss  Miggs 
or  Sairy  Gamp?"  and  the  last  word  is  brought  out  with  a  jerk;  for 
an  immense  umbrella  hooking  into  his  arm  almost  pulls  him  over. 

"  Beg  parding,  sir,"  says  a  gruff  voice.  "  For  as  I  says  to  Mrs. 
Harris,  says  I,  one  does  not  feel  dispoaged" — and  the  old  nurse 
moves  on  talking  to  herself. 

"A  gentle  hint  to  be  careful  how  one  speaks  without  knowing  who 
are  one's  neighbors.  That  was  not  a  woman's  voice.  All  the  ladies 
want  to  look  as  lovely  as  that  dear  creature  over  yonder  in  the  short 
white  skirt  and  the  muslin  kerchief  tied  under  the  arms.  See — 
that  one  in  the  full  crowned  white  cap." 

"  She  is  Charlotte  Corday,'*  I  remark. 

"  And  looks  exceedingly  like  a  milk-maid,"  he  replies. 

"  Well,"  say  I,  "if  she  is  too  simple,  here  is  a  gorgeous  one  just 
passing.  The  yellow-flowered  silk  bunched  up  with  crimson  satin 
bows  over  the  crimson  satin  petticoat.  That  high-pointed  felt  hat, 
and  that  stick  in  the  hand,  look  uncommonly  like  Old  Mother 
Hubbard's.  I  wonder  who  that  tall  man  is,  with  wig  askew,  in  the 
old-fashioned  darned  coat  and  blue  serge  trousers  ?  " 

"If  you  once  heard  him  yell  '  pro-dig-eous! '  in  your  ear  as  he  did 
in  mine,  I  don't  think  you  would  long  remain  in  doubt." 

"What!  Old  Dominie  Sampson?    And  to  think  that  I  did  not 
recognize  so  old  a  friend !    Doctor  Primrose  in  his  black  suit,  white 
cravat,  black  stockings,  shoes,  buckles  and  three-cornered  hat,,  looks 
something  like  him,  does  he  not  ?  " 
3 


34  BEHIND   THE  AREAS. 

"  Yes,"  he  answers,  with  an  absent  air.  "  But  tell  me,  Miss  Lif- 
ford,  is  not  that  Miss  Egerton  in  the  white  and  black  dress?  " 

"  That  is  one  of  the  prettiest  costumes  in  the  room,"  I  say  with- 
out noticing  his  question,  "  and  deserving  of  a  better  description 
than  yours.  It  is  white  lawn,  striped  and  dotted  with  black,  and 
covered  with  little  bells  that  discourse  the  sweet  '  Music'  it  is  meant 
to  represent." 

"I  see  you  will  not  give  me  even  a  clue  to  Miss  Egerton,  and  I 
am  not  ingenious  enough  to  discover  her  unaided." 

"Then  I  fear  you  will  have  to  wait  till  the  unmasking.  Do  you 
see  that  robe  of  white  tissue  with  the  deep  point  lace  flounce  ?  " 

"  Yes,"  he  replies,  "I  have  been  trying  to  make  out  the  pattern 
of  the  lace;  it  is  quite  odd,  is  it  not?" 

,"  She  is  Marie  Laczinska,  wife  of  Louis  Quinze.  The  pattern  of 
the  flounce  represents  the  principal  events  of  his  reign,  and  it  cost 
a  fabulous  sum  of  money,"  I  tell  him. 

"  Then  she  should  pin  on  a  card  explaining  it,  for  it  might  be  the 
procession  from  the  Ark,  for  all  an  uninitiated  person  could  tell." 

' '  Pretty  work  to  be  at,  comparing  people  as  they  pass  to  wild 
animals  leaving  the  Ark!"  exclaims  a  voice  behind  us;  and  we  turn 
to  find  a  little  vivandiere,  who  overhead  Ingolsby's  last  words.  ' '  You 
are  not  in  your  element/'  she  says,  "  talking  to  such  an  old  fright. 
Come  and  walk  with  me;"  and  linking  her  arm  into  his,  she  leads 
him  off,  while  I  breathe  threats  of  vengeance  against  the  young 
minx,  to  be  carried  into  effect  when  I  find  her  out.  I  should  not 
wonder  if  it  was  that  saucy  little  Jessie  Fullerton. 


CHAPTER  VI. 

Done  to  death  by  slanderous  tongnes. 

—  Much  Ado  About  Nothing:  Act  V,  Scene  3. 

EAVING  my  place,  I  wander  off  among  the  crowd,  avoided 
by  all  on  account  of  my  unprepossessing  appearance,  but 
overhearing  scraps  of  most  interesting  conversation.  Two 
old  dowagers  are  in  a  corner  by  themselves,  and  tiring  of  my 
aimless  wanderings,  I  get  as  near  to  them  as  possible,  to  be  amused 
with  whatever  choice  bits  of  scandal  are  told  loudly  enough  to  be 
overheard. 

As  I  steal  quietly  up  I  perceive  another  listener  like  myself,  a  pen- 
sive figure  in  a  plain  brown  dress,  white  apron  and  jaunty  cap. 
The  first  words  that  reach  my  ears  are  about  an  unfortunate  member 
of  the  sterner  sex. 


BEHIND   THE  ARRAS.  35 

"  He  puts  on  more  airs  than  enough,"  says  the  fatter  of  the  two. 
"And  who  is  he,  anyhow?"  asks  the  friend. 

"  Oh,  an  adventurer,  I'll  be  bound.  Some  pick-up  of  Sir  Grif- 
fith's." 

"  Oh,  oh!"  think  I;  "here  is  something  worth  listening  to." 
"  One  of  your  exemplary  young  men  who  are  never  worth  a  farth- 
ing," continues  Number  One.  "  The  old  man  wants  to  get  the  girl 
off  his  hands  before  her  birth  becomes  generally  known,  I  shouldn't 
wonder,  and  thinks  it  will  be  an  easy  matter  to  palm  her  off  as  a 
genuine  article  on  this  unfortunate  young  man."  Her  sympathy 
for  the  "  picked-up  adventurer"  is  truly  quite  refreshing. 

"  Your  Matilda  was  very  much  taken  with  him  last  season,  wasn't 
she  ?"  inquires  Number  Two. 

"  Oh,  no;  no,  indeed.     He  was  very  attentive,  but  she  could  not 
endure  him;  in  fact,  she  always  discouraged  his  attentions  after  that 
evening  when  your  dear  Emily  showed  so  plainly — innocent  girl! — 
that  his  attentions  to  my  Matilda  were  making  her  miserable." 
Cut  for  cut;  stab  for  stab. 

"But  what  do  you  mean  about  the  girl's  birth  being  known?" 
asks  Number  Two,  as  she  smothers  her  anger. 

"  Simply  that  she  is  not  their  own  child,"  is  the  answer,  in  a 
chuckling  tone  of  keen  enjoyment.  "  Everybody  knows  it;  J  have 
always  known  it,  but  passed  it  over.  Now,  however,  circumstances 
have  changed." 

"  Strange  that  I  should  never  have  heard  it!  Are  you  quite  sure, 
Mrs.  Grampus,  that  you  are  rightly  informed  ?" 

"Humph!"  (a  sniff  of  confident  superiority)  "I  never  speak 
without  good  authority  for  what  I  say,  Mrs.  Talons,  let  me  tell  you 
that — never.  If  you  care  to  listen,  I  will  tell  you  the  story." 
"  By  all  means;  dear,  dear,  I  am  dying  with  curiosity." 
"  Don't  you  remember  a  long,  long  time  ago — sixteen  or  seven- 
teen years  it  must  be — what  a  commotion  there  was  when  a  fearful 
murder  was  committed  here  near  Bratton  by  quite  a  youth?  The 
boy,  you  know,  was  Guy  Egerton,  the  son  of  Sir  Griffith.  He 
killed  the  husband  of  that  old  thing  (who  still  clings  to  her  maiden 
name,  dear  knows  why;  and  who,  in  consequence,  Sir  Griffith  has 
been  obliged  to  support  ever  since),  and  was  spirited  away  in  some 
mysterious  fashion,  to  save  his  neck  from  the  gallows.  Just  about 
that  time  there  was  a  low  drunken  fellow  in  the  neighborhood,  a 
man  of  very  low  birth,  and  worse  character,  if  possible — a  common 
laborer,  or  something  of  that  sort,  and  after  his  wife  had  died  from 
the  effects  of  a  beating  he  had  given  her,  he  also  disappeared,  and 
would  you  believe  it,  Mrs.  Grampus,  left  his  only  child  with  Sir 


36  BEHIND  THE  ARRAS. 

Griffith.  The  man,  it  was  strongly  hinted  at  that  time,  knew  more 
of  the  son's  whereabouts,  and  his  manner  of  getting  out  of  the 
country,  than  Sir  Griffith  would  care  to  have  made  public,  so  he 
took  the  little  brat  to  keep  the  man's  tongue  quiet,  and  pretended 
to  take  a  fancy  to  it.  My  sister  wrote  me  the  whole  story  at  the 
time,  but  as  the  Egertons  afterwards  adopted  the  child,  and  have 
chosen  to  regard  her  in  the  light  of  their  own  daughter  ever  since, 
of  course,  as  such,  I  could  not  refuse  to  allow  my  daughter  to  visit 
her.  Now,  however,  I  hear  the  man,  Miss  Egerton's  father,  ha,  ha, 
and  whose  name  is  Sullivan,  or  some  vulgar  name  of  that  sort,  is 
making  a  fortune  in  America,  and  is  going  to  try  to  get  his  child 
back  again.  Just  fancy,  my  dear,  this  grand  entertainment  being 
given  to  commemorate  the  birthday  of  a  navvy's  daughter — a  navvy 
who  beat  his  wife  to  death.  Don't  you  think  Miss  Egerton  has 
good  cause  to  give  herself  airs?  ha,  ha!" 

"How  dreadful!"  croaks  Mrs.  Talons.  "You  quite  take  my 
breath  away,  Mrs.  Grampus.  But  as  you  are  so  sure  of  this  being 
true,  I  wonder  at  your  letting  your  daughters  visit  here." 

* '  I  could  not  deny  my  dear  girls  the  pleasure  of  coming  to-night, 
my  dear;  but  rest  assured,  it  is  the  last  of  their  acquaintance  with 
the  future  Miss  Sullivan." 

A  movement  on  the  part  of  the  listening  figure  in  brown,  and  it 
stands  before  them. 

"You  vile  scandal-mongers!  Have  you  no  regards  for  the  rules 
of  hospitality,  that  you  cannot  refrain  from  maligning  people  under 
their  very  roof  ?  For  shame!  you  basest  of  the  base!"  and  as  the 
indignant  words  leave  her  lips,  she  turns  and  vanishes  in  the  pass- 
ing crowd. 

Is  it  Lucy  ?  But  no,  it  cannot  be.  She  is  Queen  Cybele,  and 
happily  heard  not  this  story,  in  many  of  its  features  but  too  true — 
only  too  true,  poor  girl! 

"Without  a  glance  at  the  discomfited  old  dowagers,  I  move  away, 
anxious  to  get  out  of  the  crowd  and  on  to  the  balcony,  anywhere  to 
think. 

Yes,  the  balcony  is  deserted;  and  there  is  one  gloomy  corner 
where  I  can  think  what  is  best  to  be  done — what  cnn  be  done  to  pre- 
vent the  circulation  of  their  vile  slander.  To  speak  of  it  to  Sir 
Griffith,  or  to  wait?  But  wait  for  what?  Little  good  ever  came 
from  delay,  and  the  first  evil  had  better  be  faced  at  once  than  al- 
lowed to  grow  and  increase  with  time.  What  trouble  is  caused  in 
this  world  by  meddlesome  people!  "Words  spoken  lightly,  or  from 
a  pure  love  of  mischief,  how  often  do  they  cause  misery  and  sorrow 
far  beyond  the  intent  of  those  who  gave  them  utterance.  Poor 


BEHIND  THE  ARRAS.  37 

Lucy!  how  will  her  proud  spirit  bear  this  if  it  gets  abroad,  even 
though  it  is  not  so  bad  as  those  women  made  it  out  to  be  ?  -  Her 
mother  was  a  lady,  idle  and  sickly,  who  had  married  beneath  her 
station.  The  child  was  shamefully  neglected,  and  taken  to  be  edu- 
cated for  a  governess,  but  she  so  grew  into  and  filled  the  lonely 
hearts  of  Sir  Griffith  and  Lady  Egerton,  that  when  her  mother  died  of 
a  rapid  decline — not  from  a  blow — and  her  father,  a  man  of  shady 
antecedents — nothing  worse —  left  the  country,  they  determined  that 
she  should  always  be  to  them  as  their  own  child,  and  should  never 
go  into  the  world  alone  to  fight  her  way  through  life.  What  is 
that?  A  moan;  and  from  the  brown  figure  which  leans  against  the 
railing  within  two  yards  of  where  I  sit;  but  with  a  now  unmasked 
face  turned  from  me  and  towards  the  moon. 

My  lips  open  to  speak,  when  another  figure  appears,  coming 
towards  us.  It  comes  closer,  and  I  see  it  is  Ingolsby.  With  both 
hands  extended  he  advances  towards  the  shrinking  figure,  saying: 
"Ah,  Lucy,  I  ha ve  found  you  at  last  in  this  simple  costume,  after 
following  every  grand  stately  character  in  the  room,  hoping  each 
might  be  you.  But  why  try  to  leave  me  ?  I  must  speak  a  few 
words,  for  to-morrow  parts  us.  I  cannot  leave  here  with  my  future 
undecided;  it  is  in  your  hands  and  you  must  form  it,  Lucy,  my 
darling.  Will  you  be  my  wife  and  make  all  the  future  happy  ? 
Will  you  give  me  permission  to  prepare  a  home  for  you  to  fill  and 
make  bright  ?  Will  you  return  with  me  to  that  home  when  I  come 
for  you  ?  Tears !  sobs !  what  is  this,  Lucy  ?" 

Bitter,  bitter  tears  are  they  which  fall  on  his  shoulder  for  a  mo- 
ment; then  she  breaks  from  him,  and  standing  upright  in  the  moon- 
light, with  little  hands  clenched,  gives  the  answer  in  a  firm  voice, 
almost  cold  in  its  suppression  of  emotion. 

"Mr.  Ingolsby,  I  can  never  be  your  wife.  Circumstances  have 
come  to  light  which  will  prevent  my  ever  becoming  the  wife  of  any 
gentleman.  Don't  blame  me;  don't  think  badly  of  me,"  and  the 
firm  voice  trembles;  "for  those  circumstances  are  not  of  my  mak- 
ing, are  no  fault  of  mine,  and  were  never  known  to  me  until  to- 
night. God  forgive  those  who  have  kept  this  secret  from  me !  In 
that  station  of  life  in  which  I  was  born,  I  would  have  been  happy; 
might  have  loved  an  equal.  But  now — Oh  Alva,  I  fear  I  have  given 
you  reason  to  hope  for  what  I  knew  not  then  can  never  be.  For- 
give me;  forgive  me!  I  knew  not  what  I  did;  I  hardly  know  now 
what  I  say! " 

"Indeed,  Lucy,  I  don't  think  you  do  know  what  you  say.  Be 
calm,  my  darling,  and  tell  me  what  has  happened;  what  is  the  mean- 
ing of  this  raving  about  birth?  Or  else,  cast  it  all  from  your  mind 


38  BEHIND   THE  ARRAS. 

and  think  only  of  this:  I  love  you? — Do  you  love  me  in  return?"  and 
he  once  more  takes  her  hands  in  his. 

"Do  I?"  and  there  must  be  assurance  in  those  ambiguous  words. 
Yes,  and  in  that  upward  glance;  for  stooping,  he  imprints  a  kiss  on 
the  soft  pink  cheek. 

A  low  cry,  the  words,  "  But  I  can  never,  never  be  yours!"  and  she 
has  freed  her  hands  from  his  grasp,  darted  past  him  and  is  gone. 
He  turns  to  follow  her,  when  I  start  from  my  seat  where  amazement 
has  held  me  spellbound,  and  catch  his  arm,  thinking  it  best  that  he 
should  be  told  all  now,  rather  than  it  should  come  first  to  his  ears, 
tortured  and  twisted  as  it  has  been  to-night. 

"  Mr.  Ingolsby !  Alva!  Let  the  girl  go,  give  her  time  to  think  and 
grow  calm.  I  can  explain  this,  and  I  want  your  advice.  The  poor 
child  must  have  changed  her  costume  or  she  never  should  have  over- 
heard what  she  did,  while  I  had  power  to  prevent  it;"  and  I  proceed 
to  tell  him  my  own  sad  history;  hers;  that  of  the  unfortunate  Guy 
Egerton,  and  how  to-night  it  all  became  known  to  her,  after  being 
carefully  concealed  for  seventeen  long  years.  He  listens  to  my 
tale  in  perfect  silence;  his  eyes,  now  dark  with  emotion,  looking  far, 
far  away,  even  beyond  the  sky  it  seems,  where  it  is  fringed  by  the 
poplars  in  the  grounds  below.  When  I  have  finished,  his  eyes  lose 
that  absent  look,  and  with  a  deep  sigh,  he  moves  for  the  first  time 
as  though  awakening  from  a  trance.  Turning  slowly,  he  walks  with 
bent  head  away  from  me,  along  the  balcony,  down  the  steps  and 
disappears  in  the  shrubbery. 

How  the  ball  ends,  I  know  not.  I  have  eyes  only  for  Lucy  as 
she  goes  about  among  the  guests  after  the  unmasking,  in  her  re- 
sumed dress  of  Cybele,  with  a  light  word  for  all,  and  receiving  their 
congratulations  and  good  wishes  of  the  day.  None  but  I  guess  the 
storm  that  is  pent  up  beneath  that  gay  exterior,  to  burst  forth  in  all 
its  fury  when  the  compress  is  removed. 

Once  in  passing  me  she  whispers :  ' '  Is  this  true  ?     Am  I  adopted  ?" 

And  thoughtlessly  I  utter  the  words  that  are  ready  on  my  tongue : 
"  Too  true,  Lucy! — only  too  true! " 


BEHIND  THE  AREAS.  39 


CHAPTER   VII. 

eagle  flight,  bol< 
Leaving  no  tract  behind. 


Flies  an  eagle  flight,  bold,  and  forth  on, 
,  beh" 


—  Timon  of  Athens:  Act  I,  Scene  1. 

OBNING  comes  at  last  after  a  sleepless  night;  comes,  as  it 
always  does,  neither  delayed  nor  hastened  by  the  human 
emotions  of  joy  or  sorrow,  hope  or  fear. 

The  breakfast  hour  arrives  and  the  guests  string  along 
one  after  another  to  the  informal  meal.  The  first  to  come  down 
stairs,  after  myself,  are  the  rollicking  Squire  Strong  and  Sir  Griffith, 
arm-in-arm,  laughing  and  talking  of  last  night's  revel. 

"And  you  didn't  know  who  was  in  old  Dominie  Sampson's  skin?" 
laughs  the  Squire;  "how  unconcernedly  people  moved  into  my 
neighborhood,  and  fled  with  hands  to  their  ears  and  expression- 
less faces  when  I  shouted  c  pro-dig-eous ! ' "  and  he  again  tries  the 
strength  of  his  lungs,  and  nearly  upsets  Lady  Egerton  by  the  mere 
force  of  the  sound  as  she  enters  behind  him. 

'"As  you  are  Strong  be  merciful! '"  she  exclaims;  "I  am  so 
fatigued  after  last  night's  exertions  that  the  least  noise  is  trying  to 
my  nerves; "  and  she  takes  her  place  behind  the  tea-urn. 

"  Why  you  look  as  fresh  as  a  daisy,"  answers  Squire  Strong.  "A 
perfect  Cleopatra  still!" 

"Do  you  know  the  reason  of  that?"  asks  Sir  Griffith,  standing 
before  the  fire  with  his  hands  in  his  pockets.  "She  was  so  worn 
out  by  the  exertion  of  watching  the  energetic  people  about  her, 
that  she  has  not  yet  felt  equal  to  the  effort  of  throwing  off  the  as- 
sumed character — Eh,  my  dear  Agnes  ?  " 

"Well,  Griffith,  if  I  am  behind  time  in  one  way,  you  are  also 
in  another;  for  you  are  but  just  beginning  to  resemble  the  witty 
Antony." 

"Ha,  ha!"  roars  the  Squire.  "She  has  you  there,  Egerton. 
Good,  my  lady — '  Pro-dig-eously  '  good!" 

"  What,  still  keeping  up  the  jokes  of  last-night?"  asks  the  fame- 
ante  Lady  Caroline  Hamilton,  who,  entering  at  the  moment,  catches 
the  last  words,  and  languidly  takes  her  place  at  the  table.  "  I 
never  could  understand  your  energy,  Mr.  Strong,  though  I  confess 
to  admiring  it,"  with  a  sweet  glance  from  her  sleepy-looking  eyes. 

"Cherry  ripe,  ripe,  ripe,  I  cry, 
Full  and  fair  ones, — come  and  buy!" 

Gaily  sings  pretty,  romping  little  Jessie  Fullerton,  skipping  into  the 
room.     "  Good  morning  to  you  all!    Do  you  know  I've  been  listen- 


40  BEHIND  THE  ARRAS. 

ing  at  the  door,  and  I've  found  out  who  it  was  who  roared  in  my 
ear,  and  then  softened  into  a  whisper,  and  said  all  those  absurd 
things  in  the  other  ear,  that  luckily  escaped  being  deafened.  Oh, 
Squire,  Squire,  I've  a  great  mind  to  repeat  it  all  ?  Shall  I,  Caro- 
line?" 

"  Egerton,  don't  you  think  its  high  time  we  paid  that  visit  to  your 
Berkshires  ?"  demurely  asks  the  Squire. 

"  Ah,  coward,  coward!"  cries  the  little  tease.  "  Come  here,  my 
lud!"  to  Lord  Eversley,  who  just  appears,  "  and  console  me  for  the 
good  fun  I'm  about  to  lose.  Why  don't  you  go  before  I  begin, 
Squire?  I'm  afraid  you  know  how  good  natured  I  am,  and  don't 
fear  me  as  you  should.  Never  mind,  Carrie  and  I  will  talk  it  all 
over  by-and-by,  and  find  a  way  to  punish  you;"  and  she  glances 
slyly  from  him  to  Lady  Caroline,  and  back  again. 

A  bevy  of  ladies  now  enter:  Old  Lady  Lindhurst  and  her  three 
meek  little  daughters;  Lady  Fortescue,  Emily  Wilbrahain,  Ruth 
Ferrers  and  Miss  Van  Praet.  After  them  come  a  number  of  gentle- 
men: Alva  Ingolsby,  Horace  Gilford,  the  promising  young  politi- 
cian; Arthur  Alresford,  a  rising  barrister;  Julian  Thalberg,  the 
young  painter;  Sidney  Carleton  and  Reginald  Percy,  of  the  Queen's 
Bays,  who  are  quartered  at  the  neighboring  barracks;  Sir  Henry 
Beresford,  Lord  George  Mortland  and  the  Honorable  Charles  Mel- 
ton, gentlemen  of  leisure.  There  follows  such  an  incessant  clatter 
of  tongues  that  one  can  catch  but  scraps  of  conversation,  which 
strangely  dove-tail  themselves  into  a  most  ridiculous  incongruity. 

Lady  Egerton  :  "  James,  muffins  for  his  lordship." 

Lady  Fortescue :  "  I  assure  you,  it  created  quite  a  sensation  in 
London,  last  season — " 

Horace  Gilford  :  "  The  fastest  horse  on  the—  " 

Lady  Caroline  :  "Piano  is  my  favorite." 

Lady  Fortescue:  "You  were  away  at  the  time,  I  believe.  I  was 
her  particular  friend,  and—" 

Squire  Strong ;  * '  I'll  trouble  you  for  some  more  omelette,  your 
ladyship." 

Lord  Eversley :  "  Aw-yeth;  blue  eyeth-a-a-my  weakneth,  you  know, 
and—" 

Miss  Van  Praet :  "  Long  ears  also,  and  the  most  fearful " 

Lady  Fortescue :  "Case  of  infatuation;  went  on  the  stage  under 
the  assumed  name  of  " 

Honorable  Reginald  Percy:  "Chatterbox  won  the  Derby  tjiat 
year." 

Sidney  Carleton :  "  Let  me  recommend  these  muffins " 

Jessie  Fullerton :  "So  stale,  you  know,  and " 


BEHIND  THE  ARRAS.  41 

Sir  Henry  Beresford  :  "  Not  in  the  least  dry;  the  speech  was  racy 
and  full  of " 

Ruth  Ferrers:  Berkshire  pigs,  Sir  Griffith." 

Lady  Caroline :  "  Quite  the  thing  now,  and  one  might  as  well  be 
out  of  the  world  as " 

"Squire  Strong:  "Stowed  away  in  the  hold  of  his  ship,  and 
mashed  out  of " 

Arthur  Aires  ford :  "  Potatoes  never  spelled  without  the  e " 

Horace  Gilford:  "The  traces  broke;  the  horses  started  forward, 
and  amid  wild  screams  and  crashing  of  glass,  we  were  precipitated 
over  the  edge  of " 

Lady  Egerton  :  A  pigeon  pie,  Sir  Henry — allow  me." 

Emily  Wilbraham  :  "The  most  exquisite  shade  of  blue  silk,  trim- 
med with  pearls." 

Horace  Gilford:  "  Dragged  through  the  mire " 

Honorable  Charles  Melton:  "By  Miss  Fullerton,  I  believe,  and 
such  a  pity  " 

Lord  Eversley:  "  The  nithetht  little  pair  of  " 

Sir  Griffith:  "  Caterpillars,  my  Lord — nothing  but  caterpillars; 
they  eat " 

Lord  George  Mortland:  "  Like  Lady  Caroline  about  the  eyes " 

Sir  Griffith :  "  Gentlemen,  would  you  like  to  walk  down  to  the 
stables?" 

Jessie  Fullerton :  "Now,  your  Lordship,  I  won't  let  you  off  that 
game  of  croquet." 

Lady  Lyndhurst :  "  I  want  to  see  your  fernary,  Lady  Egerton,  if 
it  will  not  trouble  you  too  much." 

Miss  Van  Praet :  "Lord  Mortland,  you  must  really  come  to  our 
archery  practice  on  the  lawn." 

And  those  who  have  breakfasted  saunter  off,  laughing  and  talk- 
ing, to  the  croquet-ground,  conservatories  and  stables.  They  have 
been  so  full  of  themselves,  that  none  but  Ingolsby  and  I  notice  the 
absence  of  one. 

"  Is  Miss  Egerton  not  well  this  morning  ?"  he  asks  me. 

"  I  have  not  seen  her  yet,  but  will  go  to  her  room,"  and  I  go  up 
stairs  and  knock  at  her  door.  No  answer.  Again  I  knock,  and 
still  silence.  The  handle  yields  to  my  touch,  and  I  look  into  Lucy's 
neat  dressing-room.  I  glance  at  Cybele's  dress  folded  on  a  chair; 
at  two  little  sandals  side  by  side  in  front  of  the  bureau;  at  Cybele's 
crown  in  its  box  on  the  dressing-table,  and  my  eyes  light  on  the 
open  window  through  which  the  fresh  morning  air  pours  into  the 
apartment  between  the  gracefully-looped  blue  and  white  curtains. 
But  I  see  no  Lucy.  She  has  been  up  some  time,  and  at  work  with 


42  BEHIND  THE  ARRAS. 

her  usual  neatness,  I  think.  A  few  steps  take  me  to  the  door  lead- 
ing into  the  sleeping  chamber.  There  are  the  same  evidences  of  a 
tidy  hand,  but  still — no  Lucy.  She  must  have  risen  before  any  of 
us  and  gone  out  for  an  early  walk,  I  am  now  sure.  So  I  tell  In- 
golsby,  whom  I  find  in  the  morning  room  making  himself  useful, 
holding  the  old  ladies'  worsted,  and  picking  up  stray  balls  that  will 
roll  into  holes  and  corners  from  the  many  laps. 

Presently  the  other  guests  begin  to  return  to  the  house,  and  the 
previous  hum  swells  into  a  perfect  Babel  of  tongues.  Sir  Griffith 
comes  in  to  ask  a  question  of  his  wife,  and,  as  he  is  passing  out 
again,  Alva  touches  his  arm,  and  whispers: 

"  May  I  speak  to  you  a  moment,  Sir  Griffith,  on  a  matter  of  great 
importance  ?  " 

"  This  is  rather  an  inopportune  time,  my  dear  fellow;  but  come 
to  the  library  and  I  will  spare  you  a  few  minutes  before  taking  Miss 
Ferrers  to  see  my  'Lady  May;'"  and  they  go  off  together,  and  I 
hear  the  door  close  behind  them. 

Three  or  four  young  ladies  now  gather  round  me  asking  for  Lucy, 
and  chattering  away  like  magpies;  but  I  hardly  hear  them,  my 
thoughts  are  so  intent  on  what  is  passing  behind  that  closed  door. 
There  is  no  denying  the  fact  that  I  am  gifted  with  the  curiosity 
peculiar — it  is  said — to  my  sex.  If  I  could  but  hear  them !  And  I 
will;  for  a  closet  with  a  door  at  either  end  leads  like  a  passage-way 
from  the  library  into  the  adjoining  breakfast-room,  and  through 
that  door  one  can  easily  hear  what  passes  beyond. 

So,  in  about  twenty  minutes  after  they  enter  the  library,  I  am 
close  to  them  with  but  a  thin  partition  between  us.  Ingolsby  is 
speaking: 

"  Doubtless,  the  tale  she  heard  last  night  was  most  galling  to  her 
pride.  However,  if  you  call  her  now,  her  mind  can  be  at  once 
relieved!5' 

"Ay,  ay!  her  mind  can  be  relieved,  but  mine!  After  all  these 
years  of  care  and  protection,  my  Lucy  is  to  be  taken  from  me,  and 
will  soon  forget  the  old  fellow  who  had  no  claim  upon  her;"  and 
there  is  an  affecting  sob  in  the  old  man's  voice.  "  Ah,  my  boy,  you 
have  never  been  a  father,  or  you  would  not  think  altogether  of  the 
girl." 

"Forgive  me,  my  dear  sir,"  and  sharp  pain  is  expressed  in  his 
tones;  "  I  see  for  the  first  time  how  thoughtless  I  have  been.  I 
should  have  prepared  you  for  this,  but  I  only  thought  of  what  the 
the  poor  girl's  suffering  would  be  after  what  she  had  overheard, 
never  remembering  that  another  might  love  her  as  well,  if  not  bet- 
ter, than  myself.  I  cannot  forgive  myself  for  this  unpardonable 
want  of  consideration." 


BEHIND  THE  AERAS.  43 

"  Never  mind,  my  boy,  never  mind.  I  won't  be  selfish!"  and  the 
stamp  of  his  foot  shakes  the  door  against  which  I  lean.  "  Here, 
Butters!  Watkins!  James!  somebody!"  shouting  in  the  hall;  "see 
if  Miss  Egerton  has  returned,  and  send  her  here  immediately!" 

The  steps  of  the  two  now  silent  men  are  heard  beyond,  pacing 
up  and  down,  and  I  am  on  the  qui  vive  to  hear  in  what  manner  her 
mind  is  to  be  relieved.  But  no  one  answers  to  the  call.  Stealing 
quietly  from  my  hiding-place,  I  go  to  inquire  if  she  has  returned. 
No;  she  has  not  been  seen.  Perhaps  she  .has  come  in  unperceived, 
and  I  go  up  stairs  and  through  her  rooms  once  more,  but  without 
finding  her.  Pausing  in  thought  before  the  bureau,  something 
catches  my  eye  which  escaped  me  before;  something  which  makes 
me  feel  strangely  uncomfortable.  Tis  only  a  bit  of  paper  pinned 
to  the  cushion,  but  the  sight  of  it  seems  to  stagnate  the  blood  in  my 
veins.  Under  certain  circumstances,  this  is  the  place  where  a  letter 
is  always  found.  Can  it  be?  Trembling  with  apprehension,  I 
take  it  up  and  read  the  words:  "  I  have  gone  ;  search  will  be  useless." 

I  am  stunned  for  the  moment,  but  quickly  recovering  energy,  I 
fly  from  the  room,  run  rapidly  down  the  stairs,  knock,  and  hand  in 
the  paper  at  the  library  door.  Then  I  am  sorry  for  what  I  have 
done,  and  have  not  the  heart  to  return  and  listen  to  the  conversa- 
tion, but  instead,  go  to  my  room  and  lock  myself  in  from  the  im- 
pending storm. 


CHAPTER  VIII. 

Ay,  an  you  had  any  eye  behind  you,  you  might  see  more  detraction  at  your 
heels,  than  fortunes  before  you. 

—  Twelfth  Night,  Act  II,  Scene  5. 

|EKY  soon  the  storms  breaks.  The  murmur  of  many  tongues, 
the  tramp  of  many  feet  re-echo  through  the  house,  and  rush 
and  rumble  and  grumble  through  halls  and  corridors  like  a 
$  fierce  winter's  wind  forcing  its  way  between  the  ruins  of  some 
old  building.  Presently  the  clamor  subsides — wears  itself  out;  and 
all  that  can  be  heard  is  the  occasional  slamming  of  a  door,  or  the 
rapid  movement  of  a  pair  of  feet. 

How  I  hope  and  pray  that  the  search  for  the  foolish,  impulsive 
girl  will  prove  successful;  but  I  have  my  doubts.  She  is  strong- 
willed,  she  is  clever,  and  having  fled  from  what  she  thought  dis- 
grace, is  not  likely  to  leave  a  clue  which  might  lead  to  her  discovery. 
Fortunately  for  myself,  I  can  look  upon  her  absence  more  calmly 
than  the  others,  for  I  have  much  of  the  fatalist  in  my  nature. 
I  do  not  think  that  when  misfortunes  come,  we  should  sit  idly  down, 


44  BEHIND  THE  ARRAS. 

and,  folding  our  hands,  sigh  forth  "  It  is  my  fate!  "  No;  we  should 
fight  the  battle  bravely  for  success;  but,  whichever  way  the  combat 
ends,  then  say,  with  a  heart  relieved  by  the  consciousness  of  having 
done  all  that  human  power  could  do,  "Kismet!  It  was  to  be — 
and  I  am  resigned  !  " 

Who  can  shun  inevitable  fate  ? 
The  doom  was  written;  the  decree  was  passed 
Ere  the  foundations  of  the  world  were  cast. 

A  step  approaches  my  door,  and  I  open  it  to  ask  what  news. 

"  Wilson,  where  are  Sir  Griffith  and — every  one?  " 

"Oh,  Miss,  they  are  all  off  to  the  town,  looking  for  our  Miss 
Lucy.  Just  to  think,  mum,  that  a  young  lady  like  she  should  go 
and  run  away  from  her  happy  home  an'  her  good  father! " 

"It  may  appear  strange,  Wilson,  but  of  course  she  had  good  rea- 
sons," I  say,  to  keep  up  appearances  with  the  servants;  "  and  it  is 
just  one  of  Sir  Griffith's  whims  to  make  such  a  fuss  about  nothing; 
for,  without  doubt,  we  shall  hear  from  her  before  long." 

"  Very  likely,  Miss,"  (and  her  tone  of  voice  means:  "  Not  much, 
Miss,  I'm  no  fool.")  "  But  I  really  do  pity  poor  Mr.  Ingolsby,  Miss; 
he  must  be  dreadful  fond  of  her — if  you  will  excuse  my  saying  it — 
for  he  seemed  all  struck  of  a  heap  like,  an*  the  color  of  his  face  was 
more  like  a  piece  of  white  cloth  nor  sound  flesh  an'  blood.  An'  oh, 
Miss  Lifford !  The  awful  look  in  them  big  eyes  o'  his !  They  looked 
as  if  they  were  lookin'  right  straight  into  the  next  world." 

"  I  am  not  in  the  least  surprised  at  his  seeming  anxious,  even  if 
he  did  not  feel  so,  out  of  politeness  to  his  host;"  and  I  say  the 
words  with  the  same  good  purpose  as  before,  but  with  as  little  suc- 
cess. For  though  the  woman's  eyelids  drop  over  that  tell-tale  fea- 
ture, the  eyes,  she  can't  control  the  muscles  which  elevate  her  upper 
lip  into  an  incredulous  curl. 

" But  where  is  your  mistress,  "Wilson?  She  surely  has  not  gone 
into  the  town  ?  " 

"  Oh,  no,  indeed,  mum;  my  lady  is  in  her  room  tryin*  to  keep 
quiet,  for  she  says  the  confusion  is  very  tryin'  to  her  nerves — an'  all 
the  nerves  she  has! "  in  a  lower  tone  not  exactly  meant  for  my  ears. 

"  What's  that  you  say,  Wilson?  "  very  sternly. 

"Nothing,  Miss — I  mean,  my  Lady  sent  me  to  ask  you  if  you 
would  not  go  down  and  see  the  ladies  who  is  all  alone  by  theirselves 
in  the  drawing-room." 

In  obedience  to  this  disguised  command,  I  go  down  stairs  and 
find  the  ladies  with  their  heads  together  whispering  away  at  a  great 
rate.  They  do  not  perceive  me  at  first  as  I  pause  in  the  doorway,  and 


BEHIND  THE  A  ERAS.  45 

old  Lady  Fortescue,  unconsciously  raising  her  voice,  informs  the 
others  that  she  never  could  like  the  girl.  To  her  there  was  some- 
thing ill-bred  and  vulgar  about  her. 

"  I  shouldn't  wonder  if  she  had  run  off  with  one  of  the  footmen!" 
cries  Mabel  Lyndhurst. 

"Very  likely,  my  dear,  if  she  has  not  gone  with  one  of  the 
grooms!"  comes  from  Miss  Ferrers,  in  a  yet  louder  tone.  "  Indeed 
I  always  observed  that  she  had  a  taste  for  low  company.  Only  the 
other  day  I  met  her  in  a  lane,  walking  with  a  most  disreputable 
looking  character." 

Chorus :  "  Dear— dear!    You  don't  tell  me  so  ?" 
"  Indeed,  yes,"  the  young  lady  proceeds.     "He  was  dressed  in 
a  seedy  old  suit  of  gray,  with  a  slouched  hat;  and  he  had  red  hair, 
and  green  eyes,  and  the  most  villainous  expression  of  face,  and  was 
smoking  a  nasty  pipe ! " 

"  For  my  part,  I  always  guessed  from  her  red-head,  what  kind  of 
stock  she  had  sprung  from/'  exclaims  Lady  Fullerton. 

"Now,  mamma/'  expostulates  her  daughter  Jessie,  "you  know 
very  well  that  you  are  only  jealous  because  I  have  not  the  same 
lovely  shade  of  hair.  There  never  lived  a  sweeter,  prettier  girl;  and 
as  to  the  ruffian  Miss  Ferrers  has  so  vividly  described,  it  was  no 
other  than  the  eccentric  Jolliffe  Tufnell,  who  has  recently  returned 
to  his  estate  in  the  neighborhood." 

After  this  the  silence  of  discomfiture  falls  on  the  entire  party,  till 
Lady  Fullerton  suddenly  turns  and  sees  me. 

"Ahem!  My  dear  Miss  Lifford,  we  have  all  been  expressing  our 
sorrow  for  this  sad  occurrence,  and,  believe  me,  you  have  my  sin- 
cerest  sympathy  in  this,  your  hour  of  trouble.  It  seems  an  age  al- 
ready since  I  saw  our  pretty  Lucy's  face ! " 

And  they  all  crowd  around  me  and  condole,  and  chatter,  and 
hum,  and  buzz,  till  I  am  almost  distracted,  and  but  little  consoled 
after  the  recent  specimen  of  their  good-will  and  charity. 

A  couple  of  hours  pass  slowly  by,  lagging  as  hours  have  seldom 
done  before,  and  then  the  tramping  of  horses'  hoofs  is  heard  on  the 
gravel  without. 

Sir  Griffith  enters  first  and  goes  directly  to  his  study,  without 
giving  us  a  word.  Alva  does  not  appear,  but  the  other  gentlemen 
come  in  and  join  us  and  report  that  no  trace  of  her"  can  be  found. 

"Iththe  queervetht  thing — gone!  Vanithed!  And  no  one  thaw 
her  in  the  protheth,"  is  Lord  Eversley's  comment. 

"Don't  be  down-hearted/'  says  Squire  Strong,  "it  was  but  a 
passing  freak  of  the  girl's,  and  she  will  return  of  her  own  accord  as 
soon  as  she  discovers  the  difference  between  a  home  and  the  wide 


46  BEHIND   THE  ARRAS. 

world.  It  will  do  her  good  to  experience  a  few  of  the  ills  that  flesh 
is  heir  to,  and  make  her  contented  for  the  rest  of  her  life  with  the 
lot  that  she  is  heir  to." 

"Miss  Lifford,  I  am  going  up  to  town  by  the  4.20  train,  and  if 
there  is  anything  you  should  like  done  in  the  way  of  prosecuting  a 
search  for  Miss  Egerton,  I  am  quite  at  your  service." 

"  Thank  you,  Mr.  Arlesford,  but  I  could  not  think  of  troubling 
you." 

"  I  am  at  your  service  also,  Miss  Lifford,  as  I  must  return  to- 
night," says  Horace  Gilford. 

"And  pray  command  me,"  from  Sir  Henry  Beresford. 

And  thus  many  of  them,  both  ladies  and  gentlemen,  equally  di- 
vided between  consideration  for  us  and  themselves,  leave  by  the 
4.20  express;  and  the  few  who  remain  pack  their  trunks  in  secret, 
preparatory  to  an  early  departure. 

Just  before  dinner  hour,  Wilson,  her  ladyship's  maid,  knocks  at 
my  door. 

"  Please,  Miss,  my  lady  says,  would  you  kindly  excuse  her  to  the 
company,  for  she  is  not  able  to  appear." 

So,  I  am  to  have  the  not  very  cheerful  task  of  taking  the  post 
shunned  by  Lady  Egerton,  at  the  head  of  her  table ! 

When  Sir  Griffith  passes  on  his  way  down,  I  join  him. 

"  You  have  had  no  success?"  I  ask. 

"None  so  far,"  he  says,  sadly;  "none  at  all.  From  what  the 
station-master  said,  we  judge  that  she  cannot  have  left  the  place  by 
rail,  for  he  saw  every  passenger  from  here  by  the  early  train  to 
town;  and  according  to  an  account  of  one  of  the  servants,  her  room 
was  empty  before  six  o'clock  this  morning." 

"Could  she  be  hiding  in  the  town,  do  you  think?" 

"We  shall  soon  know,  Julia,  for  proper  inquiries  have  been  set 
on  foot;  and  should  they  fail,  to-morrow  I  will  send  for  my  legal 
adviser.  Nice  trouble  I  am  taking  for  another  man's  benefit." 

"Why,  you  surely  don't  intend  to  give  the  girl  up  to  that  man, 
her — her  father  ?" 

"Of  course,"  he  answers,  sharply,  "  what  else  can  I  do?  But  let 
the  subject  drop  for  the  sake  of  our  guests,  and  Ingolsby." 

"  And  for  yours  too,  poor  fellow,"  I  reply,  pityingly. 

"  Never  mind  me!"  he  snaps  back,  "  I  am  old  enough,  and  ugly 
enough  too,  I  should  think,  to  take  care  of  myself;"  and  he  makes 
a  sadly  failing  attempt  to  assume  his  natural  tone. 

A  sad  evening  it  is  altogether;  for  Alva,  when  he  comes,  is  not  a 
lively  addition  to  our  party,  and  many  subjects  of  conversation  are 
started  which,  as  if  by  mutual  consent,  are  unsustained,  and  fall  to 
the  ground. 


BEHIND   THE  ARRAS.  47 

We  separate  early,  all  no  doubt  glad  to  be  from  under  the  re- 
straint of  each  other's  society;  some,  perhaps,  anxious  to  resume 
their  interrupted  gossip.  It  would  be  amusing,  under  different  cir- 
cumstances, to  watch  the  white  figures  that  flit  about  the  halls  well 
into  the  wee  small  hours,  going  from  room  to  room  with  an  ever  in- 
creasing budget  of  scandal. 

The  next  day  the  search  through  the  neighborhood  is  renewed 
with  unabated  energy.  About  noon  a  telegram  is  sent  to  the  family 
lawyer  in  London  to  come  down  without  delay.  The  entire  town  of 
Bratton  is  in  a  state  of  intense  excitement,  people  coming  to  the 
house  ostensibly  with  offers  of  assistance,  but  no  doubt  anxious  to 
learn  the  true  version  of  all  the  rumors  afloat.  Horsemen  gallop 
unceasingly  to  and  fro,  sometimes  with  word  that  a  clue  has  been 
discovered;  again,  to  say  it  has  failed. 

Several  times  during  the  day  the  rumor  spreads  that  Lucy  has 
been  found,  and  when  our  joyful  expectation  has  reached  its  height, 
the  report  is  proved  to  be  false,  and  our  hopes  dashed  to  the  ground. 

Sir  Griffith  seems  to  be  everywhere  at  the  same  moment,  but  con- 
fused, and  incapable  of  giving  instructions.  Ingolsby,  the  main- 
spring of  action,  is  calm  and  collected,  taking  upon  himself  the 
responsibility  of  giving  directions,  the  wisdom  of  which  becomes  at 
once  apparent,  although  it  had  before  entered  no  other  head  that 
such-and-such  a  thing  was  unmistakably  the  one  to  be  done. 

Toward  evening  a  telegram  arrives  that  Sir  Griffith's  legal  ad- 
viser cannot  leave  London  until  the  following  afternoon.  The 
household  is  in  utter  confusion;  servants  demoralized,  and  guests 
departing  in  twos  and  threes  by  every  train. 

Some  leave  with  the  time-worn  excuse  of  "  unexpected  letters," 
(which  appear  to  arrive  in  the  very  nick  of  time,)  calling  them  away 
much  against  their  wish.  Some  go  without  excuse  at  all,  consider- 
ing it  a  natural  consequence  of  what  has  occurred;  and  a  few — a 
very  few — with  unfeigned  good  wishes,  and  the  promise  to  complete 
their  interrupted  visit  under  happier  auspices.  . 


48  BEHIND  THE  AERAS. 


CHAPTER    IX. 

Grim  reader!    did  you  ever  see  a  ghost  ? 

—  Byron:  "Don  Juan." 

last  guest  has  gone,  and  confusion  reigns  supreme,  when 
Lady  Egerton  comes  to  rne  in  greater  tribulation  than  she 
has  yet  shown. 

"  What  shall  I  do,  Julia  ?  "  she  exclaims.  "At  this  time  of 
all  others,  to  think  of  her  behaving  badly,  and  she  who  has  always 
been  so  well  treated  too ! " 

"  Who  is  behaving  badly,  Agnes — what  is  the  matter?"  I  inquire 
anxiously. 

"  Who'd  believe  she  would  act  like  this,  and  I  always  so  kind  to 
her!  "she  proceeds,  paying  no  heed  to  my  question.  "I  know  I 
can  never  go  through  all  this  trouble;  it  will  kill  me,  I'm  sure  it 
will!  "with  an  effort  at  tears.  But  they  won't  be  forced,  and  she 
sinks  down  on  the  sofa,  a  picture  of  unappreciated  benevolence. 

"Unless  you  tell  me  what  is  your  trouble,  I  cannot  help  you, 
Agnes.'* 

"Oh,  will  you  help  me?  Will  you  take  this  burden  off  my 
shoulders?  How  good  you  are,  Julia !"  suddenly  reviving.  "Just 
ring  that  bell,  my  dear,  for  Wilson,  and  reason  her  out  of  this 
freak.  It's  nothing  but  a  freak,  and  you  have  such  a  persuading 
way  with  you,  my  love,  that  you  will  soon  convince  her,  I  have  no 
doubt. " 

Snatching  thus  at  the  first  hint  of  relief  from  annoyance,  she  lies 
back  languidly  waiting  for  Wilson,  and  for  me  to  settle  a  matter  of 
which  I  as  yet  know  nothing  whatsoever. 

"  Suppose  you  tell  me  what  I  am  to  say  to  Wilson  when  she 
comes,"  I  quietly  remark. 

"  Oh,  you  know  best,  my  dear.  You  are  always  better  at  talking 
to  these  people  than  I;  and  you  can  reason  her  out  of  this  freak," 

"  But  you  have  not  told  me  what  this  freak  is,  Agnes." 

"  Why,  don't  you  know?"  elevating  her  eyebrows,  (as  though 
thinking  "  how  stupid  you  are!")  "  Well,  Julia,  she  has  actually 
had  the  assurance,  after  all  these  years  in  my  service,  she  who  has 
always  appeared  so  faithful,  to  give  warning.  And  not  only  she, 
but  half  the  other  servants  as  well.  Come  in!  Wilson,  I  have  been 
telling  Miss  Lifford  how  shocked  I  am  at  your  behavior." 

The  woman  curtsys,  and  then  I  ask  her: 

"  What  is  the  reason  of  this  sudden  notion  of  yours,  WTilson  ?  Do 
you  not  think  that  there  is  worry  enough  in  the  house  now,  without 
your  giving  us  more  ?  I  am  surprised — very  much  surprised." 


BEHIND  THE  ARRAS.  49 

"Well,  Miss,  I'm  sure  I'm  very  sorry,  but  indeed,  indeed  Miss, 
it's  no  freak  as  my  Lady  calls  it  at-all-at-all;  and  I  wouldn't  add  to 
your  trouble  for  worlds,  but — but — "  and  she  stammers,  and  pauses, 
visibly  embarrassed. 

"  But — what,  Wilson?  Have  you  anything  to  complain  of  ?" 
"No,  indeed,  Miss;  its  right  sorry  lam  to  leave,  and  Watkins 
says  he  never  was  better  treated  anywhere;  but — but — well,  to  be 
honest,  Miss,  me  and  Watkins,  and  James,  the  groom,  an'  Sarah, 
the  'ousemaid,  feels  as  we  dare  not  stay  no  longer  in  this  'ouse, 
mum." 

"  Did  you  ever  hear  anything  to  equal  that!"  exclaims  Lady  Eg- 
erton.  "Just  get  her  to  tell  you  some  of  the  foolish  stories,  to 
which  I  hadn't  patience  to  listen/* 

"  Explain  your  meaning,  Wilson,  in  not  daring  to  remain." 
"Well,  Miss,  I'm  sure  its  right  sorry  I  am  to  be  obliged  to  say 
such  things;  but  mum,  we  all  believes,"  and  she  looks  fearfully  be- 
hind her,  and  opens  her  eyes  very  wide,  and  lowers  her  voice  to  a 
whisper,  "  we  believe,  mum,  that  the  Jouse  is  'aunted  !  Yes,  'aunted 
by  poor  dear  Miss  Lucy!  An'  we  'as  good  reason,  and  so  we  'as, 
mum,  for  our  suppogicians,"  she  hurries  on,  "for  each  of  us  four 
'as  seen  her.  The  very  mornin'  after  she  disappeared — yesterday 
morning,  it  was — I  was  up  betimes  to  go  to  early  mass,  mum,  an'  as 
I  was  a  passin'  along  the  'all  to  leave  a  clean- washed  combin'-wrap- 
per  in  my  Lady's  dressin'-room,  I  sees  a  figure  with  one  'and  all 
blazin'  with  fire,  a  glidin'  along,  an'  it  went  through  the  baize  door, 
without  openin'  it,  an'  the  light  vanished,  and  there  I  stands  all  in 
a  tremble,  I  could  not  even  'oiler,  I  was  that  scared.  But  I  didn't 
say  nothin',  Miss,  for  there  wasn't  no  need  to  scare  the  rest  of  'em; 
but  at  breakfas,'  Watkins  he  said  as  'ow  his  pantry  was  all  hupside 
down,  an'  things  a  lyin'  round  as  if  the  witches 'ad  been  there. 
An'  this  mornin'  he  was  awful  white,  an7  told  us  as  'ow  the  night 
before  he  was  a  goin'  with  a  message  to  Sir  Griffith  to  the  library, 
an'  what  did  he  see  but  the  spirit  o'  Miss  Lucy  a  standin'  guard  at 
the  door,  an'  all  of  a  suddint  it  glides  off  an'  vanishes.  An'  then 
James,  the  groom,  he  speaks  hup  an'  says,  very  late  at  night  he 
hears  the  black  mare  as  Sir  Griffith  bought  last  week,  very  huneasy, 
an'  as  he  goes  to  see  what's  the  matter,  he  notices  a  light  in  the  din- 
nin'-room,  and  thinkin'  as  'ow  it  might  be  robbers,  he  steals  up  an' 
looks  in,  an'  what  does  he  see  but  a  figure  just  like  Miss  Lucy,  on'y 
brown,  an'  not  white,  like  ghosts  is,  a  walkin'  about,  an*  all  of  a 
suddint  a  light,  as  he  could  not  tell  where  it  come  from,  goes  out, 
an'  he  runs  away  scared.  An'  then,  Miss,  this  mornin',  Sarah,  the 
'ousemaid,  goes  to  the  luggage-room,  to  look  for  a  chair  as  my  Lady 
4 


50  BEHIND  THE  ARRAS. 

says  we  might 'ave  in  our  room,  mum,  an' when  she  hopensthe  door, 
there  stands  the  same  figure  as  James  had  spoke  of;  and  so  she 
turns  round  and  runs  away,  a  thin  kin'  the  old  boy  (savin'  your  pres- 
ence, my  Lady),  was  a'coming  after  'er.  An'  James,  he  'as  seed 
lights  a  movin'  habout  in  Miss  Lucy's  room,  Miss,  late  o'  nights, 
when  you  all  was  asleep;  an'  so,  mum,  we've  hall  made  hup  our 
minds  as  'ow  we'd  better  go." 

While  she  has  been  speaking,  I  have  determined  on  a  course,  the 
only  one  to  pursue  with  superstitious  people,  and  though  it  involves 
a  little  sacrifice  of  truth,  'tis  the  only  way  to  restore  harmony  to 
our  distracted  household.  When  she  has  finished,  therefore,  I 
burst  out  laughing. 

"  How  can  a  woman  of  your  sense,  Wilson,  be  so  ridiculous?"  I 
ask.  "  Who  ever  heard  of  a  brown  ghost,  or  of  one  wandering 
about  in  the  day-time,  or  of  one  pillaging  a  pantry!"  Then  I  be- 
come very  stern,  and  continue:  "You  might  go  away  from  here, 
and  set  false  reports  flying,  and  believe  all  your  life  that  you  had 
once  lived  in  a  haunted  house.  So  it  is  that  legends  are  founded. 
It  fortunately  happens  that  I  can  give  you  a  satisfactory  explana- 
tion of  all  this;  and  in  future  be  cautious  how  you  allow  your  im- 
agination to  fly  away  with  your  reason.  The  morning  you  supposed 
you  saw — a  ghost,  forsooth! — I,  becoming  restless,  had  been  to  Miss 
Lucy's  room,  and  was  returning  with  a  candle  in  my  hand,  which.  I 
extinguished  on  reaching  the  baize  door.  I  had  on  my  brfown  dress- 
ing-gown, and  in  that  same  garment  I  went  to  the  library  door  in 
the  evening,  intending  to  write  some  letters,  but  hearing  Sir  Griffith 
within,  came  away  without  entering.  It  was  probably  as  I  stood, 
hesitating  a  moment,  that  Watkins  passed  through  the  hall,  and 
saw  me;  and,  being  excited  like  the  rest  of  us,  mistook  me  for  a 
ghost." 

I  pause  to  give  my  words  time  to  become  impressed  on  the  mind 
of  the  woman,  who  stands  open-mouthed  looking  at  me. 

"That  same  night,"  I  proceed,  "sitting  up  late,  I  remembered 
having  left  something  in  the  dining-room,  and  went  in  search  of  it, 
taking  no  candle,  but  lighting  matches  as  I  went.  This  morning  I 
was  looking  over  some  old  trunks  in  the  triangular  room,  when  I 
heard  the  door  slam,  and  hurrying  to  it,  saw  Sarah  speeding  away 
in  the  distance.  There  are  Sarah's  and  James's  ghosts,  and  yours 
and  Watkins's.  As  to  the  lights  in  Miss  Lucy's  room,  why  I  have 
been  there  frequently,  as  you  know.  Now,  I  hope  your  fancies  are 
laid  quietly  at  rest;  and  if  you  please,  you  will  repeat  in  the  ser- 
vant's hall  what  I  have  said,  and  then,  if  any  should  not  be  satisfied, 
send  them  to  me.  You  may  go  now,  Wilson." 


BEHIND   THE  AERAS.  51 

Utterly  dumbfounded,  she  mutters  something  unintelligible, 
curtsys  again,  and  leaves  the  room.  Then  Lady  Egerton  exclaims: 
"Just  see  what  trouble  you  came  near  getting  us  into,  Julia,  by 
your  night-wanderings!" 

"  Do  you  mean  to  say  that  my  story  imposed  upon  you  also?  Ha, 
ha!  Why,  not  one  word  of  it  was  the  truth." 

Her  ladyship  looks  scarcely  less  astonished  than  did  the  woman, 
and  forgetful  of  the  good  effect  my  words  have  had,  begins  a  lecture 
on  my  shocking  habit  of  want  of  veracity. 

"  Shall  I  ring,  and  tell  them  it  was  all  false?"  with  my  hand  on 
the  bell-rope. 

"No,  no!"  she  cries;  "  let  it  be  now,  as  the  evil  is  done." 

And  that  is  the  last  of  her  ladyship's  lecture;  and  also,  the  last 
that  is  heard  of  ghosts  or  warnings  from  the  servants.  I  even  learn 
sometime  after  from  one  of  the  housemaids,  that  Wilson  was  dread- 
fully "  high  and  mighty/'  as  she  expressed  it,  in  the  servant's  hall, 
assuming  an  air  of  superiority  over  the  unfortunates  who  had  con- 
fided to  her  their  fears;  and  spoke  with  such  irony  of  "  imagination 
flying  away  with  their  reason,"  and  of  "  brown  ghosts,"  that  none 
durst  venture  to  again  give  expression  to  their  superstitious  imag- 
inings. 

But  although  I  succeed  so  well  in  convincing  others  of  the  ab- 
surdity of  their  notions,  many  painful  doubts  and  fears  are  raised 
in  my  own  mind,  by  Wilson's  strange  recital.  For  what  reason  is 
there  for  disbelieving  that  the  four  servants  really  beheld  something 
supernatural? 


CHAPTER  X. 

Methought  what  pain  it  was  to  drown! 

What  dreadful  noise  of  Avater  in  mine  ears! 
What  sights  of  ugly  death  within  mine  eyes! 

—  Kichard  III:  Act  I,  Scene  4. 

NDER-SIZED,   shrivelled   and  pugnacious,  Mr.  Jedediah 
Strutt,  of  Lincoln's  Inn,  Solicitor,  arrives  from  London. 

His  rule  is  contrary  to  the  precept,  "  Be  not  wise  in  your 
own  conceits,"  for  no  man  ever  thought  more  highly  of  his 
own  opinions,  or  took  less  pains  to  conceal  the  fact.  No  matter  how 
he  may  be  worsted  in  argument,  he  still  holds  to  it,  that  he  was  "right, 
perfectly  right,  from  the  stand  he  took,  and  the  way  in  which  he 
looked  at  the  subject."  By  what  process  of  logic  he  arrives  at  this 
conclusion,  is  something  unknown  to  all  but  himself,  and,  perhaps, 
beyond  the  comprehension  of  lesser  minds  than  his  own. 


52  BEHIND  THE  AERAS. 

The  train  winch  brings  him  to  Bratton  arrives  very  late,  giving 
him  but  a  few  minutes  to  make  his  preparations  for  dinner,  and 
leaving  no  time  for  any  discussion  of  the  subject  which  requires  his 
presence.  At  the  table,  all  allusion  to  Lucy  is  avoided  in  deference 
to  the  apparent  wish  of  Sir  Griffith.  The  conversation,  chiefly  of 
politics  and  questions  of  law,  frequently  flags,  and  all  but  Mr. 
Strutt  appear  to  talk  without  exhibiting  the  slightest  interest  in 
what  they  or  anyone  else  may  be  saying.  He,  however,  rattles  away 
with  his  usual  loquacity,  ready  to  enter  the  lists  for  a  tilt  at  words 
with  anybody  upon  any  subject  whatever;  but  unfortunately  there 
is  no  one  willing  to  take  up  the  gauntlet. 

When,  at  length,  Lady  Egerton  and  I  leave  the  gentlemen  to  their 
wine,  we  know  well  what  will  be  the  subject  of  their  talk;  and  it  is 
long  before  they  seem  to  resolve  upon  a  proper  course  to  pursue. 

The  sole  occupants  of  the  large  drawing-room,  Lady  Egerton  and 
I,  settle  with  our  books  before  the  fire — a  welcome  luxury  on  this 
chilly  evening.  As  I  glance  slyly  from  the  open  pages  that  I  do 
not  care  to  read,  I  can  guess  by  her  ladyship's  fixed  look,  that  she 
has,  like  myself,  taken  up  the  book  for  the  mere  purpose  of  avoid- 
ing conversation.  Presently  the  volume  slips  from  her  fingers  and 
her  eyes  rest  upon  the  blazing  logs;  and  then,  by  degrees,  the  lids 
close  and  she  is  in  the  land  of  dreams,  where  there  are  to  her  no 
disturbing  emotions,  but  a  peaceful  life  where  domestic  machinery 
moves  easily  and  smoothly  upon  wheels  lubricated  with  the  oil  of 
tranquillity.  Or  else,  perhaps,  where,  with  their  worst  faults  mag- 
nified, untold  Lucys,  and  discontented  servants,  and  argumentative 
Mr.  Strutts,  and  eccentric  Sir  Griffiths  abound  to  a  tantalizing  de- 
gree, giving  her  even  less  chance  of  a  calm  life  than  she  has  here 
upon  earth. 

How  silent  is  the  house!  So  still  and  quiet,  in  fact,  that  I  begin 
to  have  a  wild  fancy  that  I  must  have  become  deaf;  that  surely  a 
great  clamor  is  going  on  around,  although  I  cannot  hear  it;  and 
that  should  a  cannon  be  fired  off  in  the  room  it  would  have  no  effect 
upon  my  ears.  But  just  as  the  fancy  reaches  its  climax,  a  sound, 
mysterious  by  its  distance,  breaks  the  death-like  silence,  and  my 
delusion  quickly  vanishes.  Yet  again  and  again  it  returns,  each 
time  more  impressive,  and  each  time  dispelled  by  some  far-off  sound 
— a  human  voice — the  sigh  of  the  trees  without — the  faint  echo  of  a 
distant  bugle  at  the  cavalry  barracks,  as  watch  is  set  for  the  night — 
or  the  shrill  whistle  of  the  night-express,  passing  through  the  town 
two  miles  away. 

How  lonely  it  seems!  I  wish  Agnes  would  wake  up  and  be  com- 
panionable; for  what  if — and  I  look  nervously  over  my  shoulder — 


BEHIND  THE  A  ERAS.  53 

what  if  a  brown  figure  should  be  moving  about  the  room,  and  should 
come  and  lay  its  cold  hand  upon  me!  And  I  almost  feel  the  touch, 
and  give  an  involuntary  start.  Or,  what  if  a  supernatural  guard  should 
be  looking  upon  us  from  the  door-way!  or  some  ghostly  eye  peer- 
ing in  through  that  crack  in  the  shutter  to  the  right!  Can  that  be 
a  stealthy  step  upon  the  stairs  ?  These  idle  fancies  crowd  upon  my 
mind  till  the  silence  becomes  unbearable,  and  I  poke  the  fire  vigor- 
ously and  noisily,  arousing  Lady  Egerton  from  her  nap. 

"  Haven't  they  come  in  yet  to  their  tea  ?  "  she  asks  with  the  slight- 
est tinge  of  peevishness  in  her  tone — the  farthest  limit  she  ever  allows 
herself;  and  I  am  now  sure  that  her  dreams  have  been  of  magnified 
evils — not  tranquillity. 

"No,  indeed,  they  haven't,  Agnes;  and  it's  quite  eleven  o'clock. 
Hark!  There  is  the  dining-door  opening,  and  I  hear  their  voices." 

In  another  minute  Sir  Griffith  enters  alone. 

"I  don't  know  what  I  should  do  without  Ingolsby,"  he  says  plac- 
ing a  chair  for  himself  before  the  fire.  "  He  insists  upon  neglecting 
his  own  business  and  attending  to  mine.  As  it  is  best  that  1  should 
remain  here  to  superintend  matters,  he  goes  up  to  London  to-mor- 
row, and  he  and  Strutt  have  now  gone  to  the  library  to  make  ar- 
rangements about  employing  detectives,  and  advertising  and  all  that. 
They  may  want  me,  so  I  think  you  had  both  better  go  off  to  bed, 
my  dears." 

"  I  shall  be  only  too  glad,  Griffith;  but  don't  you  come  up  at  two 
or  three  in  the  morning,  as  you  have  lately  been  doing.  It  disturbs 
me  dreadfully.  You  can't  bring  the  girl  back  in  that  way,  and  such 
late  hours  will  only  injure  your  own  health." 

The  baronet  gives  a  long  look  into  his  wife's  placid  face;  sighs 
sadly,  and  taking  it  between  his  hands,  kisses  her  with  a  visible 
tenderness  unusual  for  him,  and  then,  as  though  ashamed  of  the 
weakness,  abruptly  rushes  from  the  room. 

Agnes  raises  her  eye-brows  at  me. 

"Don't  you  think  this  trouble  is  having  an  effect  on  his  mind?  " 

"  If  anything  affects  his  mind  to-night,  it  is  you,  my  dear.  But 
come,  let  us  take  his  advice  and  go  to  our  beds;"  and  I  move  to- 
ward the  door,  and  her  ladyship  follows." 

We  find  Sir  Griffith  in  the  hall,  lighting  our  bed-room  candles, 
and  there  we  separate  for  the  night. 

******** 

Early  the  next  morning  Alva  goes  up  to  town,  promising  to  tel- 
egraph the  first  good  tidings.  He  is  gone  several  days,  but  writes 
only  of  failure  in  the  search. 

On  the  evening  of  the  third  of  October,  one  week  from  the  date 


54:  BEHIND   THE  ARRAS. 

of  Lucy's  flight,  lie  returns;  and  a  glance  at  his  sad  weary  face,  with 
dark  circles  beneath  the  eyes,  tells  the  ill-success  of  his  journey. 

After  the  most  uncomfortable  of  many  comfortless  dinners,  he, 
Sir  Griffith  and  Mr.  Jedediah  Struttmeet  in  conclave  in  the  library; 
and  I,  deserting  Lady  Egerton,  betake  myself  to  my  former  post  at 
the  closet-door,  in  the  hope  of  learning  what  has  been  done.  As  I 
take  my  position,  I  hear  the  squeaking  voice  of  Mr.  Strutt: 

"  I  am  sorry  to  inform  you,  Mr.  Ingolsby,  that  we  cannot  find  the 
faintest  trace  of  the  missing  young  lady.  It  is  very  strange  indeed, 
for,  according  to  my  opinion,  she  started  at  once  for  London,  and  I 
cannot  understand  how  she  managed  to  pass  through  the  town 
where  she  is  well  known,  without  being  seen  or  recognized  by  a  sol- 
itary person.  Our  only  hope  now,  is  in  tracing  her  from  the  Lon- 
don railway  station.  Here,  my  men  give  the  absurd  report  that  she 
cannot  have  left  by  foot,  rail  or  private  conveyance.  Now,  admit- 
ting, for  the  sake  of  argument,  that  such  be  the  case,  how  can  we 
account " 

"Never  mind  that,  just  now,  Strutt,"  impatiently  interrupts  Sir 
Griffith;  "  but  let  Ingolsby  tell  us  the  result  of  his  trip.  Proceed, 
my  boy!" 

"I  followed  your  instructions,  Mr.  Strutt,"  says  Ingolsby  in  a 
spiritless  tone,  "and  employed  the  detectives  you  recommended. 
They  took  much  interest  in  the  case,  and  appeared  to  be  greatly 
mortified  at  the  final  report  they  were  obliged  to  render  of  their  in- 
vestigations. No  such  person  as  the  one  described  could  be  traced 
from  Euston  Square,  the  terminus  of  the  Bratton  trains,  and  no  clue 
discovered  of  her  whereabouts.  Dismissing  them,  I  played  the  only 
other  card  in  our  hand.  I  advertised  in  the  Times,  and  it  was  with 
great  repugnance  to  my  feelings  that  I  did  so,  for  I  felt  sure  she 
would  dislike  the  publicity." 

"  She  brought  it  on  herself,"  mutters  Sir  Griffith,  as  Alva  con- 
tinues : 

"Should  this  fail  to  bring  her  back,  there  is  only  one  conclu- 
sion at  which  we  can  arrive,  and  that " 

His  voice  breaks. 

"  'Tis  a  very  pretty  case,  Mr.  Ingolsby,  and,  if  I  may  venture  to 
say  it,  you  did  wrong  in  dismissing  the  police;  for  a  young,  inex- 
perienced girl  like  her,  could  not  hide  herself  long  from  their  lynx 
eyes. 

"  With  your  permission,  Sir  Griffith,  I  shall  write  at  once  to  have 
the  search  renewed." 

"  Do  what  you  think  best,  my  firiend;  only  get  her  back;  get  her 
back,  that  is  all  I  ask." 


BEHIND   THE  ARRAS.  55 

"Most  assuredly  I  shall,  Sir  Griffith.  If  she  be  living,  you  will 
have  her  with  you  in  a  few  days,"  replies  the  lawyer;  and  in  a  mo- 
ment the  scratching  of  a  pen  is  heard. 

"  Ah!  If  she  be  living,"  sighs  Alva. 

"  And  who  the  deuce  would  kill  a  pretty,  helpless  creature  like 
her,"  is  the  sharp  retort  from  Sir  Griffith.  "  I  beg  your  pardon, 
my  dear  fellow,  but  something  happened  yesterday  which  has  quite 
unhinged  me.  Do  you  remember  once  saying,  that  you  believed  in 
ghosts,  though  you  had  never  seen  one  ?  What  would  you  say,  if  I, 
who  do  not  believe  in  them,  were  to  tell  you,"  and  his  voice  lowers, 
"  I  was  almost  sure  I  saw  one  yesterday  morning  ?  Either  a  ghost, 
or  our  Lucy!  I  was  wandering  about  the  eastern  wing,  looking  for 
an  old  book,  in  one  of  the  unoccupied  rooms,  and  trying  to  keep  my 
mind  off  the  girl,  when  a  sensation  that  there  was  another  presence 
near  me,  made  me  turn,  and  there,  gliding  off  in  the  distance,  was 
a  figure  I  ought  to  know,  in  a  water-stained  brown  dress.  Suddenly 
it  paused,  the  head  turned,  and,  as  I  stand  on  this  spot,  I  saw 
Lucy's  face,  though  persistent  search  through  the  rooms  found  noth- 
ing! Why,  man,  what's  the  matter?  Here,  drink  this  water." 
And  then  there  is  silence  for  an  instant  in  the  room  beyond. 

"How  do  you  feel,  now,  Mr.  Ingolsby?"  queries  Mr.  Strutt. 
Ah,  the  color  is  coming  to  your  face.  The  excitement  of  the  past 
few  days  has — " 

"  No,  not  that,"  interposes  Ingolsby,  "  not  that,  but  this  recital 
of  Sir  Griffith;  it  has  strengthened,  almost  confirmed  a  suspicion 
to  which  I  have  never  given  words,  of  which  I  have  barely  allowed 
myself  to  think,  'tis  so  terrible.  Sir  Griffith,  Mr.  Strutt,  I  have  not 
told  you  of  something  which  occurred  on  that  evening  of  the  masque- 
rade, which  has  preyed  upon  my  mind  ever  since,  giving  me  no  rest 
night  or  day.  During  the  evening,  I  chanced  to  find  Miss  Egerton 
on  the  balcony.  She  spoke  strangely,  even  wildly,  and  fled  from 
me.  Miss  Lifford,  who  happened  to  come  out  at  the  moment,  told 
me  how  Lucy  had  overheard  that  unlucky  conversation,  which  seems 
remarkably  to  have  influenced  her  fate.'' 

"Ingolsby,"  hoarsely  asks  Sir  Griffith,  "do  you  ever  think  of 
her  reluctance  to  choose  the  slip  of  paper  ?" 

"  I  thought  of  it  then,  sir,  as  I  wandered  off  through  the  grounds, 
my  mind  disturbed  by  painful  memories.  But  do  not  let  that  dis- 
tress you;  it  is  but  one  of  those  strange  coincidences  which  serve  as 
a  foundation  for  foolish  superstitions.  I  was  about  to  say,  that  in 
my  ramble  I  unexpectedl}7  found  myself  in  the  neighborhood  of  the 
lake,  just  by  the  boat-house.  As  I  leaned  against  one  of  the  trees 
in  the  shadow,  the  water,  rippling  in  the  moonlight,  had  a  soothing 


56  BEHIND  THE  ARRAS. 

effect  upon  me.  It  could  not  have  been  more  than  a  few  minutes 
before  there  was  a  rustling  in  the  bushes,  and  rapid  footsteps  on  the 
gravel.  I  turned  my  head,  and  there  stood  Lucy  gazing  up  at  the 
moon,  its  light  falling  on  her  white  face.  My  first  impulse  was  to 
speak  to  her;  but,  on  second  thoughts,  I  determined  not  to  pain  her 
by  the  knowledge  of  my  presence,  and  remained  silently  where  I 
was,  in  the  shade  of  the  trees.  She  moved  quickly  to  the  water's 
edge,  and  stepping  into  one  of  the  boats,  rowed  herself  to  the  mid- 
dle of  the  lake.  There  she  dropped  the  oars,  and  I  could  dimly 
see  her  standing  in  the  boat,  with  arms  stretched  upward.  A  sud- 
den movement,  a  low  cry,  a  splash,  and  she  was  in  the  water!  I 
was  scarcely  conscious  of  having  moved,  before  I  found  myself  in 
the  lake  supporting  her.  I  carried  her  to  the  shore.  I  don't  think 
she  had  lost  consciousness;  but  lying  there  in  my  arms,  she  was 
speechless,  frightened,  stunned.  I  took  her  to  the  house,  up  a  pri- 
vate staircase,  to  her  room,  and  left  her  with  her  maid.  Then  I 
went  to  my  own  room  to  change  my  wet  clothes,  but  did  not  rejoin 
the  revelers. 

"  When  her  absence  was  discovered  the  next  day,  I  told  her  maid 
not  to  speak  of  what  had  occurred;  and  perhaps  I  was  wrong  in 
doing  so,  but  my  purpose  was  to  save  others  from  the  anxiety  I 
suffered  myself. 

"  The  last  time  I  saw  Lucy,  she  was  lying  on  her  sofa,  a  brown 
dress  clinging  to  her  as  the  water  dripped  from  its  folds  on  to  the 
carpet;  her  eyes  following  me  to  the  door,  dumbly  imploring.  This 
seems  almost  like  a  breach  of  confidence." 

He  pauses,  but  nothing  is  said  by  the  other  two. 

"  While  we  have  been  searching  for  her,"  he  presently  continues, 
4  c  each  day  bringing  nothing  but  disappointment,  the  thought  has 
formed  and  grown  in  my  mind,  was  that  fall  in  the  water  acci- 
dental? Is  it  possible  that  she  can  have —  But  no,  no;  I  will  not 
allow  such  thoughts  to  sully  her  pure  memory.  I  should  not  have 
told  you  this!" 

11  Compose  yourself,  my  dear  sir,"  says  the  lawyer.  "  You  have 
done  right  to  speak.  Your  only  error  has  been  in  not  informing  us 
of  this  sooner,  that  a  different  kind  of  investigation  might  be  adopted 
than  that  hitherto  pursued.  The  lake  must  be  dragged  at  once." 

"  Come,  cheer  up,  my  boy!"  says  Sir  Griffith  with  forced  cheer- 
fulness. "Don't  give  way  to  despondency.  Just  imagine  yourself 
a  Mahometan  and  look  upon  all  this  as  having  been  written  in  the 
Book  of  Fate  long  before  we  or  our  forefathers  were  born  to  our 
inheritance  of  mingled  joys  and  sorrows.  Remember,  that  all  your 
worrying  will  not  alter  the  past.  Think  what  the  state  of  my  mind 


BEHIND  THE  AREAS.  57 

would  be,  did  I  permit  myself  to  believe  that  I  am  tlie  cause  of  all 
that  has  occurred  from  having  forced  the  girl  into  acting  against 
her  wish.  I  simply  believe  that  I  have  been  the  cat's  paw  of  cir- 
cumstances, and  that  all  was  foreknown  to  a  Power  above,  long  be- 
fore it  happened.  Mercy  on  us,  how  late  it  is!  After  twelve;  and 
into  what  an  abstruse  subject  I  have  been  led.  If  you'll  excuse  me, 
Strutt,  111  leave  you  here  to  write  your  letters  in  peace.  And  In- 
golsby,  let  you  and  I  go  to  bed." 

Good-nights  are  exchanged,  and  as  their  footsteps  die  away  in 
the  distance,  I  steal  off  to  my  room. 

When  half  way  up  the  stairs,  I  catch  their  voices  returning,  and 
fly  back  to  the  dark  hall  below.  Twice  or  thrice  I  think  they  have 
gone  to  their  rooms,  but  their  footfalls  sound  again  as  they  pace  to- 
and-fro,  now  near,  and  now  far.  At  last,  I  hear  the  words,  "  Good- 
night, my  boy."  " Good-night,  sir."  and  then  I  go  up  stairs  once 
more.  As  I  reach  the  last  step,  a  shadow — a  dark  something — moves 
quickly  past  and  is  lost  in  the  gloom.  What  is  it  ?  Frightened  and 
trembling,  I  reach  my  room,  hurriedly  strike  a  light  and  glance 
around.  Nothing  unusual  is  to  be  seen,  and  I  think  it  an  idle  fancy, 
conjured  up  by  my  over-excited  brain,  and  go.  off  to  bed,  but  only 
to  dream  of  Lucy's  body  found  floating  in  the  lake.  Once  during 
the  night,  I  imagine  she  is  beside  me  with  one  hand  on  my  pillow, 
the  other,  glowing  as  a  ball  of  fire.  Starting  up  wide  awake,  I 
light  my  candle,  but  see  nothing,  hear  nothing,  but  the  mice  in  the 
wainscot.  Everything  remains  as  I  had  left  it,  and  I  lie  back  fully 
convinced  that  it  was  only  a  dream,  but,  nevertheless,  keep  the  can- 
dle burning  beside  me  till  dawn. 


CHAPTER  XI. 

I  summon  up  remembrance  of  things  past. 

— Shakspeare:  Sonnet  XXX. 

SIT  alone  at  my  window,  looking  out  on  the  snow-covered 
ground,  and  trees  red  with  berries,  contrastiog  with  the  white 
mantle  of  mother  earth,  and  reminding  one  forcibly  of  the 
happy  day  so  lately  passed — the  anniversary  of  that  event 
which  brought  redemption  to  the  world  with 

"Peace,  good- will,  towards  men." 

My  thoughts  are  of  that  blessed  occasion,  as  I  gaze  on  the  lonely 
scene  without — the  snow,  chaste  and  bright,  beneath  the  cold  though 
brilliant  rays  of  the  winter  sun,  as  they  glance  from  icicles  which 


58  BEHIND   THE  ABBAS. 

droop  and  sparkle  on  leafless  trees  and  evergreens,  forming  a  fringe 
of  hues  rivaling  the  varied  tints  of  rarest  gems;  and  my  occupation, 
that  of  writing  up  my  diary,  is  forgotten,  and  the  book  lies  neg- 
lected in  my  lap. 

At  length,  turning  from  the  view  which  has  so  many  attractions 
in  my  eyes,  I  re-open  the  leaves  that  contain  the  history  of  my  own 
life,  and  events  in  the  lives  of  many  others.  For  the  first  time  since 
it  was  written,  I  glance  over  the  account  of  the  disappearance  of 
Lucy,  and  the  fruitless  search  that  followed.  A  little  over  four 
months  has  she  been  gone,  and  it  seems  an  age  to  me,  left  alone 
here  in  this  desolate  old  place  which  all  now  fully  believe  to  be 
haunted  by  the  poor  girl's  spirit.  The  holidays  have  gone  by  un- 
celebrated for  the  first  time  in  the  eighteen  years  since  that  other 
disappearance  of  the  son  of  the  house. 

Unfortunate  family !  to  lose  two  children  in  the  same  mysterious 
fashion. 

The  snow  was  already  deep  on  the  ground,  and  the  pretty  little 
robin  red-breasts  hopping  about,  when  Sir  Griffith  was  ordered  to  a 
milder  climate  for  the  benefit  of  his  health,  which,  after  all  hope  of 
recovering  his  lost  darling  was  past,  had  begun  perceptibly  to  fail 
in  spite  of  his  energetic  attempts  to  hide  the  fact  from  us,  and  ap- 
pear himself  in  the  face  of  this  second  sorrow  of  his  life.  But  his 
malady  refused  to  obey  his  will,  the  disease  would  not  be  thwarted, 
and  by  the  command  of  his  physicians,  he,  accompanied  by  Lady 
Egerton,  went  to  pass  the  winter  on  the  continent,  much  to  the 
satisfaction  of  her  ladyship  who  took  the  astounding  event  of  Lucy's 
flight  quite  philosophically  and  with  wonderful  composure  even  for 
one  of  her  phlegmatic  temperament. 

Mr.  Jedediah  Strutt's  confident  prediction  of  Lucy's  speedy  re- 
turn to  her  friends  remains  unfulfilled,  notwithstanding  his  re- 
employment  of  the  police,  and  the  advent  upon  the  scene  of  some 
of  the  most  expert  detectives  of  Scotland-yard.  They  carefully  ex- 
plored the  house,  discovering  several  out  of  the  way  passages  and 
secret  doors  that  none  of  us  knew  existed,  and  dragged  the  lake, 
but  all  to  no  purpose;  the  only  trace  of  the  missing  girl  to  be  found, 
the  brown  merino  dress  in  which  she  played  the  housemaid,  dis- 
covered hidden  away  in  one  of  many  unused  rooms,  being  a  clue 
that  ended  where  it  began.  Of  course,  gossip  was  not  idle  in  the 
neighborhood  at  these  strange  doings,  and  the  old  story  of  Guy 
Egerton,  and  his  mysterious  spiriting  away,  was  revived,  and  in 
everybody's  mouth. 

Poor  Ingolsby!  Few  would  have  guessed  from  his  calm,  almost 
cheerful  demeanor,  all  that  he  suffered;  though,  to  a  keen  observer, 


BEHIND  THE  ARRAS.  59 

lines  of  sorrow  were  perceptible  about  the  firm  mouth  and  beneath 
the  sad  grey  eyes.  He  was  young;  yet,  his  face  showed  that  this 
was  not  the  first  time  sorrow  had  been  met  and  conquered. 

When  the  others  left,  he  accompanied  them  to  the  south  of  France, 
to  recuperate  his  somewhat  shattered  health,  and  shortly  returns 
to  England  to  renew  the  search.  He  would  never  give  over,  he 
said,  till  some  efficient  clue  was  found.  The  last  words  of  Sir  Grif- 
fith on  leaving  home  were  to  the  assembled  household: 

"  On  my  return,"  said  he,  "if  it  ever  takes  place,  let  me  never 
hear  the  sound  of  her  name;  let  every  reminder  of  her  be  removed 
from  sight;  let  her  be  as  one  who  has  never  existed.  She  may  be 
living  or  she  may  be  dead;  and,  in  either  case,  she  has  acted  a  most 
ungrateful,  shameful  part,  and  no  longer  has  she  any  hold  upon  my 
heart.  I  say  this  openly,  and  without  hesitation  to  you  all.  Re- 
member it!" 

And  he  was  gone;  so  feeble,  yet  so  stern,  and  having  spoken  each 
word  clearly  and  decidedly  in  spite  of  his  wife's  imploring  gestures; 
for  though  she  loved  Lucy  less  deeply,  yet  her  woman's  heart  would 
have  spared  the  poor  girl's  memory  this  bitter  humiliation.  How 
cruel,  and  yet — I  cannot  help  saying  it — how  just  these  words  of 
his  seem,  as  I  read  them  over!  But  to  erase  them  from  my  mind,  I 
turn  the  leaves  in  search  of  others,  more  kind  and  loving,  that  I  have 
taken  down  in  happier  times. 

But  what  is  this  that  I  find  between  the  leaves  ?  A  letter  directed 
to  Miss  Lifford,  which,  surely,  I  never  saw  before,  and  never  placed 
in  that  position.  With  fingers  trembling  from  excitement,  for  I 
recognize  the  handwriting,  I  tear  it  open,  and  it  drops  to  the  floor 
as,  turning  to  the  end,  I  see  Lucy's  name!  It  must  be  from  the 
spirit-world,  I  think,  and  I  would  cast  it  into  the  fire,  only  my  curi- 
osity— that  bane  of  my  life — tempts  me  to  read.  Thrice  I  stoop  for 
the  letter,  and  thrice  it  drops  from  my  fingers  to  the  floor.  At  last 
it  remains  in  my  faltering  hand,  my  foolish  fears  are  dispelled,  and 
my  fingers  grasp  it  firmly,  as  I  begin  to  read: 

"O  Julia,  Julia!  lam  going  to  leave  you — to  leave  my  home, 
every  one,  everything— and  my  heart  is  breaking.  Would  that  I 
had  courage  to  brave  the  humiliation  of  remaining  and  being  claimed 
by  that  man!  But  I  have  not.  Am  I  very,  very  wicked,  Julia,  not 
to  have  any  filial  feeling  toward  my  father  ?  O,  the  misery  of  find- 
ing, after  all  these  years  proudly  imagining  myself  the  daughter  of 
that  good  old  man  I  love  so  well,  that  I  have  been  cruelly  deceived 
by  those  I  loved  and  trusted  most  on  earth,  and  that  I  am  nothing 
but  a  lowly-born  village  maiden !  Why  was  I  taken  from  my  right- 
ful station  and  given  thoughts  and  tastes  that  did  not  of  right  belong 
to  me  ?  Why  did  they  cultivate  a  mind  into  being  ashamed  of  its 


60  BEHIND  THE  ARRAS. 

possessor's  true  position  in  life  ?  It  was  all  cruelly  mistaken  kind- 
ness; and  now,  I  have  to  pay  the  penalty,  by  going  out  into  the 
world  and  earning  my  living  in  that  sphere  for  which  my  past  life 
has  unfitted  me;  for  to  return  to  my  father,  and  sink  from  a  high- 
bred lady  into  a  village  lass  in  the  place  where  I  was  born  and  have 
lived  so  many  happy  years,  is  more  than  I  could  endure.  I  cannot 
— I  will  not  do  it!  He  has  never  known  a  daughter's  love  and  he 
will  not  miss  it.  Sir  Griffith  will  move  heaven  and  earth  to  find 
me,  I  know;  and  (were  I  but  to  speak  the  words)  would  sacrifice  all 
he  possesses  to  keep  me  with  him;  but  that  I  will  not  have.  If  I 
do  not  take  my  true  position  in  life,  I  will  not  occupy  a  false  one. 
He  must  not  find  me — he  shall  not.  1  will  never  consent  to  live  as 
I  did,  and  I  could  not  exist  as  his  child — his  /  I  have  laid  my  plans 
well,  and  they  can  never  find  me.  Besides,  I  have  good  reasons 
for  knowing  that  they  will  all  think  me  dead.  It  is  far  better  that 
they  should  imagine  I  am  out  of  this  sad  world,  than  living,  they 
know  not  where  or  how.  There  will  be  a  stain  on  my  memory — but 
what  of  that?  Who  will  care  after  a  very  short  time?  Even  Alva, 
to  whom  I  was  at  first  tempted  to  write  as  I  am  doing  to  you,  even 
he  will  soon  recover  from  the  blow;  for  he  knows  of  something 
which  will  confirm  the  general  suspicion,  and  will  help  to  erase  the 
memory  of  one  he  must  think  so  wicked  from  his  mind.  Oh,  Julia, 
'tis  the  unkindest  cut  in  my  poor  heart  to  think  that  he  believes  me 
capable  of  the  base  wickedness  and  cowardice  of  taking  the  life 
which  belongs  to  my  Maker.  But  it  is  better  so — better,  far  better; 
and  he  will  forget  me  sooner,  and  take  one  more  worthy,  though 
not  more  loving,  to  his  heart.  Ah,  never,  never  will  he  find  one 
more  loving!  Good-bye,  Julia,  dear;  you  have  always  been  good  to 
me,  and  do  not  change  now,  by  telling  the  secret  of  my  existence,  a 
secret  which  a  wise  girl  would  have  kept  to  herself,  but  my  full 
heart  would  have  burst,  had  I  not  poured  it  forth  to  some  one.  If 
you  knew  my  plans  for  flight,  which,  of  course  I  dare  not  tell,  you 
would  see  how  utterly  futile  will  be  all  attempts  at  recovery.  I  leave 
it  to  your  honor  to  keep  my  secret,  and  close  these  many  lines  with 
tears  wrung  from  me  for  the  first  time  in  all  these  unhappy  hours 
by  thoughts  of  the  step  I  am  compelled  to  take.  O  Fate — Fate ! — 
why  so  cruel  to  poor  LUCY." 

She  is  alive!  is  the  first  thought  that  passes  through  my  mind. 
And  she  will  soon  be  found!  Then  I  remember  the  months  that 
have  gone  by  without  the  occurrence  of  any  such  event,  and  I  am 
filled  with  grief  that  this  letter,  which  would  have  been  such  a  spur 
to  our  exertions,  should  not  have  been  sooner  found.  It  would,  at 
least,  have  saved  much  heart-burning  and  many  regrets,  if  nothing 
more.  But  how  came  it  here  ?  'Tis  surely  very  strange.  She  could 
not  have  placed  it  here  herself  that  night,  for  I  was  in  my  room 
when  the  ball  broke  up,  and  she  remained  down  stairs  until  the 
last.  The  next  morning  she  had  gone  before  I  was  awake.  Had 
she  a  confidante  amongst  the  servants  ?  We  never  thought  of  that, 
and  yet,  it  must  have  been  so;  for  now  I  recollect  how  anxious  was 


BEHIND   THE  ARRAS.  61 

Jane  Wilson  to  leave  her  place  as  soon  as  her  young  mistress  was 
found  to  be  missing. 

This  news  should  be  sent  to  Mr.  Strutt  at  once;  and  I  immedi- 
ately sit  down  and  write  to  him,  enclosing  a  copy  of  Lucy's  letter. 
It  seems  unkind  to  disregard  her  wish  for  secrecy  after  the  confi- 
dence she  has  placed  in  me,  but  I  cannot  allow  her  to  wreck  her 
happiness  by  any  of  her  foolish  whims.  The  letter  must  go,  and 
having  sent  it  off  to  do  its  work  of  assisting  in  the  recovery  of  our 
pet,  I  return  to  my  window,  and  there  watching  the  softly-falling 
snow,  dream  of  a  re-united  and  happy  family. 


cc 


CHAPTER  XII. 

Oft  expectation  fails,  and  most  oft  there 
Where  most  it  promises. 

—  All's  Well  that  Ends  Well:  Act  II,  Scene  2. 

>ITH  paper  before  me,  I  am  about  to  write  to  the  Egertons 
when  the  post  comes  in,  bringing  me  a  characteristic 
epistle  from  Sir  Griffith : 

"  BASLE,  February  4th. 

MY  DEAR  JULIA:  '  The  Campbells  are  coming.'  My  wife  de- 
sires me  to  say:  Have  the  town-house  in  readiness  for  our  return, 
which,  being  interpreted,  means,  immediately  proceed  to  open  all 
the  doors  and  windows;  and  having  thus  formed  a  thorough  draught, 
drench  the  entire  place  with  soap-suds,  to  make  it  moist  as  well  as 
airy;  shroud  the  furniture,  and  turn  everything  topsy-turvy,  upside 
down;  then,  having  got  all  things  into  beautiful  confusion,  perform 
the  laborious  task  of  setting  them  to  rights  again;  and  I  give  you 
three  weeks  in  which  to  accomplish  it  all.  I  won't  stand  this  beastly 
place  any  longer.  I've  had  quite  enough  of  balmy,  humbug,  fiddle- 
stick climates,  and  am  determined  to  return  '  hame,  hame,  hame  to 
my  ain  countree/  if  it  kills  me.  Better  die  a  violent  death  at  home 
than  be  ennuye  into  one's  grave  in  a  place  like  this.  Agnes  enjoys 
it  immensely — doesn't  wish  to  return,  and  would  stay  behind  were 
it  not  for  appearances.  We  leave  here  this  afternoon  for  Paris, 
where  my  lady  intends  to  replenish  her  wardrobe,  and  we  will  start 
for  home  in  time  to  reach  London  on  the  twenty-eighth. 

"  We  have  been  constantly  on  the  move  since  Ingolsby  left  us  for 
Italy,  two  months  ago;  and  consequently,  have  heard  from  him  but 
once.  Agnes  wishes  you  to  make  a  few  purchases  in  town.  She 
intends  re-furnishing  her  own  suile  of  rooms,  and  I  inclose  a  list  of 
articles  which  begins  its  expensive  career  by  costing  me  triple 
postage. 

"In  the  name  of  all  the  furies,  manage  to  forget  the  most  of 
them,  or  you'll  leave  me  beggared  in  my  old  age. 


62  BEHIND  THE  ARRAS. 

"  Agnes  forgets  to  send  her  love  in  the  excitement  of  watching  her 
trunks  packed,  but  I  send  it  for  her. 

"  Expect  us  in  London  on  the  twenty-eighth,  remember. 

"I  am, 

"Yours, 

"  GRIFFITH  EGERTOX." 

"P.  S.  Close  the  hall,  and  bring  all  the  servants  to  town.  It  is 
doubtful  when  I  shall  return  to  Bratton." 

Little  use  in  writing  now,  and  I  will  keep  the  good  news  of 
Lucy's  letter  for  a  welcome  home.  But  how  unfortunate  that  they 
are  to  arrive  so  soon,  leaving  me  such  short  space  in  which  to  com- 
plete necessary  arrangements.  It  is  just  like  Sir  Griffith,  however, 
to  suppose  that  others  require  as  little  time  as  himself  to  form  and 
execute  resolves.  I  only  hope  that  the  change  of  climate  at  this 
early  season  may  not  be  injurious  to  him. 

Nothing  is  to  be  done  but  to  obey  orders,  and  after  several  days 
spent  in  the  performance  of  many  duties  attendant  on  shutting  up 
an  establishment  like  this  for  an  indefinite  period,  I  start  for 
London. 

The  house  in  Park-Lane  is  a  dismal  old  place  with,  at  present, 
but  few  habitable  rooms  kept  in  readiness  for  flying  visits.  The 
rest  of  the  house  having  remained  closed  since  the  end  of  last 
season,  all  the  carpets  are  rolled  up  and  put  away,  the  furniture  is 
covered  closely,  and  dusty  windows  are  screened  by  dustier  shutters. 
In  the  few  habitable  rooms  I  take  up  my  abode,  and  at  once  set  the 
domestic  machinery  in  motion.  Windows  are  thrown  open  and  the 
sunlight  let  in,  showing  everything  thickly  covered  with  a  dust  that 
is  soon  seen  stirring  in  the  sunbeams;  gloom  is  chased  away  by 
light  and  air,  and  the  place  is  beginning  to  assume  an  orderly, 
cheerful  aspect,  when  1  start  out  to  execute  my  numerous  commis- 
sions, not  daring  to  follow  Sir  Griffith's  hint,  and  forget  them. 
Even  Lady  Egerton  would  be  ruffled  at  that. 

One  afternoon,  while  I  am  at  Jackson  &  Grahams,  the  uphol- 
sterer's in  Oxford  street,  giving  orders  about  some  violet  satin 
hangings  for  her  ladyship's  boudoir,  a  lady  enters  the  shop  and  ac- 
cidentally-upsets  a  cornice,  which,  falling  towards  me,  just  grazes 
my  shoulder. 

"  A  thousand  pardons!"  she  exclaims;  "I  hope  my  awkwardness 
has  not  harmed  you." 

"  Not  in  the  least,  I  assure  you,"  is  my  reply,  although  the  shoul- 
der is  a  little  painful.  My  excuse  for  the  fib  is  the  beautiful  face 
looking  with  unfeigned  kindliness  into  mine;  a  face  so  fascinating 
that  I  cannot  forbear  glancing  at  it  rather  oftener  than  good  form 


BEHIND  THE  ARRAS.  63 

permits,  while  she  stands  at  a  little  distance.  I  may  be  ordering 
purple  curtains  lined  with  blue,  for  aught  that  I  know,  my  atten- 
tion is  so  fully  occupied  with  the  dignified,  yet  graceful  figure.  A 
window  at  the  back  of  the  shop  throws  its  light  on  a  countenance 
expressive  of  all  that  is  womanly  in  the  highest  sense  of  the  word — 
amiability,  gentleness,  love,  and  tenderness  toward  all  mankind — 
all  the  soft  and  winning  qualities  of  woman,  mingled  with  a  firm- 
ness and  courage  unmistakable;  and  from  the  eyes  beam  that  best 
and  rarest  gift  to  human  nature,  true  heartfelt  sympathy — a  fund  of 
it  never  to  be  exhausted.  The  color  of  the  eyes  is  dark  liquid 
brown,  lustrous  as  a  young  girl's,  beneath  the  smooth  bands  of 
simply  parted  white  hair,  which  proves  the  advanced  age  of  an 
otherwise  young-looking  face.  Her  ungloved  hand,  with  its  taper 
fingers  and  delicate  nails,  shows  high  breeding,  as  does  her  whole 
air,  and  I  am  quite  enchanted  by  the  most  beautiful  old  lady  I  have 
ever  seen. 

On  passing  out  she  smiles  and  nods  another  excuse  for  the  acci- 
dent, and  my  eyes  follow  her  into  a  coroneted  carriage  at  the  door. 

As  the  equipage  turns  slowly  in  front  of  the  shop,  my  glance  is 
caught  by  a  small,  ungloved  hand  very  like  the  one  I  have  been 
admiring,  that  rests  upon  the  door.  A  quick  flash  in  the  sun- 
shine, and  as  the  horses  step  out  more  briskly,  something  glit- 
tering falls,  apparently  unnoticed,  from  that  hand,  and  rolls  into 
the  street  close  beside  the  pavement.  "With  a  bound  to  the  door, 
following  a  sudden  impulse  of  curiosity,  I  dash  into  the  street,  to 
the  astonishment  of  the  shopman,  who  has  already  regarded  me 
with  wondering  eyes,  and  in  I  plunge  amongst  the  throng  of  pass- 
ing vehicles.  A  policeman  is  by  my  side  instantly,  and  idle  pass- 
ers-by stand  and  gaze.  For  a  moment  I  am  at  a  loss  what  to  do  or  to 
say.  Then  I  tell  him  I  have  lost  a  ring,  for  I  think  it  the  most  prob- 
able article  to  drop  from  a  lady's  hand,  and  he,  requesting  me  to 
step  on  to  the  pavement,  searches  for  that  glittering  something.  Ah, 
there  it  lies!  He  sees  it  as  quickly  as  I,  and  rescues  it  from  the 
mud.  I  have  one  fortunate  glimpse  of  it  as  he  brushes  it  free  of 
dirt,  and,  thanks  to  my  clear  sight,  I  recognize  it  instantly,  oh,  won- 
der of  wonders,  as  a  ring  that  I  have  seen  before. 

It  is  a  carbuncle  in  a  peculiar,  old-fashioned  setting;  a  setting 
that  is  strangely  familiar,  and,  with  my  heart  throbbing  from  excite- 
ment, I  stretch  out  my  hand  to  receive  it.  But  the  man,  with  pro- 
fessional caution,  holds  it  back,  and  asks  me  how  he  shall  know  that 
it  is  mine  ? 

A  curious  crowd  is  gathering  around  us.  I  run  a  great  risk  in 
claiming  and  attempting  to  identify  this  ring,  but  I  am  sure  that  I 


64  BEHIND   THE  AREAS. 

recognized  it.  I  could  not  mistake  what  was  my  own  property  for 
years  before  I  gave  it  as  a  birthday  present  to  Lucy  Egerton. 

"It  is  a  carbuncle  ring/'  I  say  boldly  with  I  hope  no  outward 
sign  of  inward  tumult;  "and  inside  it  are  engraved  the  initials, 
«  L.  E.  from  J.  L.,'  the  date,  '  September  25,  18-.'" 

The  man  holds  the  ring  up  to  the  light.  Am  I  right  ?  I  stand 
holding  my  breath  as  he  screws  up  one  eye  and  peers  into  it.  The 
crowd  is  increasing,  and  people  press  upon  and  stare  at  me  most 
unpleasantly,  and  make  uncomplimentary  remarks.  Some  of  them 
evidently  take  me  for  a  shop-lifter,  caught  with  stolen  goods  in  my 
possession. 

'"S.,  S.  F.'  (how  I  tremble!)  "No,  'L.  E.'".  (Ah!)  "  <  from 
I.,  J.  L/  Yes,  mum;  it's  all  quite  right,  mum,"  and  touching  his 
hat  respectfully,  the  policeman  hands  me  the  ring,  and  bids  the 
crowd  move  on.  Very  unwillingly  it  does  so,  considering  itself  de- 
frauded of  its  rights,  no  doubt,  in  that  there  has  been  neither  row 
nor  arrest  to  entertain  it. 

Clutching  my  prize  tightly,  I  rush  back  into  the  upholsterers. 
There  I  have  time  to  examine  it,  for  the  clerks  are  busy  with  other 
customers.  What  a  marvelous  incident  is  this.  The  ring  given  by 
me  to  Lucy  Egerton,  falling  from  the  window  of  a  private  car- 
riage and  coming  directly  back  into  my  hands.  What  a  mystery  it 
would  have  been  to  me  but  for  Lucy's  recently-found  letter;  but  now 
of  one  thing  I  am  convinced,  this  ring  and  the  woman  who  occu- 
pied that  carriage  will  be  clues  to  the  girl's  whereabouts.  Either 
she  herself  was  the  occupant,  or  the  occupant  knows  something  of 
her.  That  is  logic. 

Prompted  by  a  sudden  thought,  I  seek  out  the  bead  man  of  the 
establishment,  the  man  who  waited  upon  the  lady  who  upset  the 
cornice.  From  him  I  demand  her  name. 

"I  don't  know  her  name,  ma'am,"  is  the  aggravating  answer, 
uttered  in  an  indifferent  tone  by  the  upholsterer. 

"  Don't  know  it!    Why,  did  she  leave  you  no  address?" 

"  No  ma'am,  she  is  not  a  customer.  Only  came  in  to  make  some 
inquiries." 

Greatly  disappointed,  and  with  throbbing  heart  and  puzzled 
mind,  I  leave  the  shop.  Thinking  that  I  ought  to  impart  my  dis- 
covery at  once  to  Mr.  Strutt,  I  drive  directly  to  his  office.  'Tis  but 
a  few  streets  to  Lincoln's  Inn  Fields,  and  a  long  flight  of  stairs  takes 
me  up  to  his  chambers,  where  I  find  his  little  wizened  confidential 
clerk  who  might  be  a  relation  of  the  solicitor  himself,  from  the  like- 
ness between  them. 

"  Good  morning,  Miss  Lifford,  take  a  chair,  Miss;  a  very  pleasant 
day.  Take  this  chair,  Miss;  you'll  find  it  more  comfortable." 


BEHIND  THE  ARRAS.  65 

"  Thanks,  Mr.  Wiggins,  the  one  I  have  is  very  comfortable.  Is  n'fc 
Mr.  Struttin?" 

"Well,  now,  Miss  Lifford,  isn't  it  unfortunate  that  you  should 
have  all  the  trouble  of  coming  this  long  way,  and  Mr.  Strutt  not 
here,"  rubbing  his  chin  with  the  feathered  end  of  his  quill-pen. 
"  You  see,  Miss,  he  was  called  away  suddenly  to  draw  the  will  of  an 
old  gentleman  who  is  supposed  to  be  dying  down  in  Suffolk,  and 
they  sent  for  Mr.  S.,  post-haste." 

"  Oh,  dear,  I'm  so  sorry!  Nothing  could  be  more  unfortunate! 
When  do  you  expect  him  back  ?  " 

"  I  can't  say  when  he'll  return,  Miss,  for  the  old  gent  may  live  a 
week  or  two,  and  he's  a  reg'lar  cranky  old  curmudgeon,  who  may 
insist  on  having  half  a  dozen  or  more  different  wills  drawn  up  be- 
fore he  gets  one  to  suit  him.  He  has  given  the  alarm  of  dying  often 
before  now,  Miss,  and  kept  Mr.  S.  there,  day  after  day  hard  at  work, 
and  when,  at  last,  he  had  a  document  to  please  him  all  published, 
signed  and  witnessed,  why  Miss,  he'd  get  well  again  and  tear  it  up." 

"  I  wonder  that  Mr.  Strutt  will  dance  attendance  on  such  a  crazy 
old  man." 

"  Well,  you  see  Miss,"  he  replies,  using  his  knife  vigorously  on 
the  pen,  "  he  gets  well  paid  for  it — very  well  paid;  for  the  old 
gent  isn't  a  miser,  Miss,  but  only  wants  to  leave  his  money  to  the 
best  advantage,  and  he  thinks  he  can  use  it  better  himself  than  any 
one  else,  and  is  afraid  to  keep  a  satisfactory  will  executed  when  he 
gets  one,  imagining  as  somebody  mentioned  would  be  tempted  to 
kill  him  to  get  the  money  at  once.  For  he's  very  queer — a  reg'lar 
old  curmudgeon,  Miss,"  and  he  gives  an  emphatic  nib  to  the  pen. 

"  When  did  Mr.  Strutt  leave  town?  "  I  ask,  little  interested  in  the 
whims  of  this  odd  creature. 

"  On  the  fifth,  Miss;  and  there  is  a  letter  here  for  him  from  you, 
Miss.  I  didn't  forward  it,  as  he  told  me  not  to  send  him  all  his 
letters,  not  knowing  exactly  how  long  he'd  be  away,  but  to  open 
them  myself  and  only  send  to  him  anything  of  great  importance.  I 
didn't  think  it  would  make  much  difference,  if  this  matter  you  wrote 
about  was  not  attended  to  at  once,  as  so  much  time  has  already 
been  lost  since  the  young  lady's  disappearance;  but  if  you  consider 
it  necessary,  I  will  write  at  once." 

"If  I  consider  it  necessary!  I  should  think  I  did  consider  it 
necessary,"  I  answer  angrily.  "  One  would  suppose  that  so  much 
time  having  been  lost  already,  was  the  very  reason  that  none  should 
be  wasted  now.  How  do  we  know  that  she  is  not  at  this  moment  in 
abject  misery — starving,  perhaps — and  too  proud  to  ask  for  help?" 
(As  he  has  been  so  negligent  I  choose  not  to  tell  him  of  my  adven- 
5 


66  BEHIND  THE  ARRAS. 

ture  at  the  upholsterers'  shop-door.)  "  Your  conduct  has  been  most 
strange,  Mr.  Wiggins,  and  I  cannot  understand  your  motives.  You 
will  oblige  me  by  writing  immediately  to  Mr.  Strutt,  and  telling  him 
there  is  work  of  more  importance  awaiting  him  here  in  town,  than 
pandering  to  the  whims  of  that  old  will-making  dotard,"  and  I 
sweep  from  the  room,  followed  to  the  stair-head  by  the  cringing 
clerk  offering  apologies  and  excuses  innumerable.  A  nice  person 
for  Mr.  Jedediah  Strutt  to  leave  as  a  judge  of  the  importance  of 
matters  in  his  business ! 

I  return  home  in  such  a  bad  humor  that  I  feel  tempted  to  wish 
that  the  ' '  old  curmudgeon  "  may  this  time  be  obliged  to  make  his 
last  will  and  testament.  If  Sir  Griffith  or  Ingolsby  were  only  here ! 
But  they  are  miles  away,  and  I  must  trust  to  my  own  resources.  A 
whole  night  I  pass  in  forming  schemes  for  tracing  Lucy,  but  discard 
them  again  as  unsatisfactory,  with  even  greater  rapidity  than  that 
old  wretch  in  Suffolk  destroys  his  wills. 

When  morning  comes,  I  have  determined  that  for  the  present  I 
can  do  nothing — absolutely  nothing — but  wait  and  keep  my  eyes 
open  and  look  about  me  for  the  reappearance  of  that  coroneted  car- 
riage. Having  met  it  once,  'tis  more  than  likely  to  cross  my  path 
again. 


CHAPTER  XIII. 

Yet  when  an  equal  poise  of  hope  and  fear 
Does  arbitrate  the  event,  my  nature  is 
That  I  incline  to  hope  rather  than  fear. 

—  Comus. 

UNCTUALLY  on  the  twenty-eighth  the  Egertons  arrive.  Sir 
Griffith  but  little  improved  by  his  trip,  poor  man;  Lady 
Egerton  as  calmly  benignant  as  ever,  retiring  at  once  to  her 
room,  with  a  few  cold  words  of  praise  at  the  general  appear- 
ance of  order  in  the  house.  Sir  Griffith  is  more  cordial  in  his  manner. 
"Ha,  Julia,"  he  says,  "  how  nicely  you  have  arranged  things. 
Wonderful,  considering  the  short  time  you  had !  And  just  see  here/' 
opening  his  library  door  and  going  in;  "  everything  placed  to  my 
hand  as  you  know  I  like  it,  and  all  the  little  trifles  I  forgot.  You 
are  quite  a  treasure,  Julia,  really,"  looking  at  me  kindly.  Then  his 
eyes  wander  round  the  room  again,  and  starting  slightly,  he  ex- 
claims, "  But  not  this,  Julia;  this  must  not  be  here!"  He  points 
with  a  trembling  finger  and  frowning  face  at  the  wall  where  haDgs  a 
portrait  of  Lucy  when  a  child. 


BEHIND   THE  ARRAS.  67 

"  Oh,  Sir  Griffith,  I  have  something  to  tell  you  about  her,"  I  say, 
with  a  slight  feeling  of  diffidence. 

"No,  no, "he  replies,  nervously  fingering  some  papers  on  the 
table;  "  I  will  hear  nothing,  Julia.  And  you  will  please  to  remem- 
ber my  parting  instructions/' 

"But,  Sir  Griffith/'  I  boldly  hurry  on;  "  she  is  alive!  and  she 
wrote — " 

"  Saying  where  she  was,  and  with  whom?"  he  interrupts,  with  a 
shade  of  relenting  in  his  voice,  as  his  face  brightens. 

"  The  letter  was  written  at  the  time  of  her  flight,  but  I  only  re- 
ceived it  a  short  time  ago.  Since  then  I  have  heard  nothing  further; 
only  -  — " 

"That  will  do,"  raising  his  hand,  and  his  face  growing  sterner. 
"If  she  prefers  the  society  of  strangers  to  that  of  her  benefactors, 
let  her  have  her  own  way.  I  will  not  be  cajoled  into  speaking  of 
the  girl;  and  I  lay  my  positive  commands  upon  you  never  again  to 
mention  her  name  in  my  presence,"  and  he  motions  me  to  leave  the 
room. 

With  what  harshness  Sir  Griffith  judges  her  conduct!  But  I  have 
little  doubt  his  feelings  would  soon  change,  were  he  to  read  her 
pathetic  letter  to  me;  and  I  still  have  hopes  of  a  reconciliation,  if  I 
can  only  prevail  upon  him  to  listen  to  me.  I  can  but  wait  and  trust 
that  time  may  soften  him.  In  the  meantime  the  girl  must  be  found, 
and  the  next  afternoon  I  start  out  to  inquire  if  Mr.  Strutt  has  yet 
returned  from  Suffolk. 

As  I  am  leaving  the  house,  Lady  Egerton's  maid  hurries  down 
stairs  with  the  request  from  her  lad}Tship  that  I  will  call  for  a  lace 
flounce  at  Hayward's  in  Oxford  street.  It  provokes  me  not  a  little 
to  be  compelled  to  go  so  far  out  of  my  way,  but  the  event  proves 
that,  for  once  in  her  life,  her  ladyship  has  been  the  means  to  a  good 
end;  for  when  I  drive  up  to  the  shop,  there  is  that  same  coroneted 
carnage  before  the  door! 

The  sole  occupant  is  just  stepping  out,  and  to  my  great  disap- 
pointment, 'tis  neither  Lucy  nor  the  old  lady,  but  a  petite  young 
girl.  We  reach  the  shop-door  together,  and  she  pushes  her  way 
past  me  somewhat  rudely,  with  a  haughty  sweep  of  her  skirts.  Her 
little  head,  with  its  straw-colored  hair  and  watery-blue  eyes,  is  car- 
ried very  high,  and  a  face  that  might  otherwise  be  pretty  is  marred 
by  an  expression  of  scornful  contempt  for  everything  beneath  her. 
While  looking  in  vain  for  the  eyebrows  and  lashes,  that  have  either 
forsaken  their  position,  or  are  so  light  in  color  as  to  be  impercepti- 
ble to  my  old  eyes,  I  feel  that  I  would  not  trust  that  girl  with  the 
life  of  a  dumb  animal.  I  take  an  intense  dislike  to  her  on  the  spot 


68  BEHIND   THE  AEEAS. 

— very  absurd,  no  doubt,  but  as  uncontrollable  as  is  love  at  first 
sight.  However,  she  possesses  an  interest  for  me,  and  having  lin- 
gered over  silks,  and  satins,  and  laces  till  she  has  completed  her 
purchases,  I  give  orders  to  the  coachman  to  follow  her  carriage 
from  place  to  place. 

A  long  and  rather  exciting  chase  it  is,  for  often  do  we  get  en- 
tangled in  the  block  of  vehicles.  Straight  on  through  Oxford  street 
the  coroneted  carriage  drives  without  stopping  again,  and  we  lose 
sight  of  it  as  it  turns  into  Regent  street,  but  catch  up  again  near  the 
Quadrant;  thence  on  up  Piccadilly  and  past  Green  Park  it  goes, 
once  more  nearly  giving  us  the  slip  in  the  crowd  at  Hyde  Park 
Corner,  and  I  wonder  to  myself  as  we  toil  slowly  through  the  jam, 
whether  it  will  turn  down  Grosvenor  place,  or  keep  on  out  Knights- 
bridge  way  to  Brompton.  The  former  it  does,  and  at  last  draws  up 
before  a  handsome  house  in  Eaton  Square,  and  the  blonde  young- 
lady,  dismissing  the  carriage,  enters  the  house  and  the  door  closes 
on  her  small  figure. 

Shall  I  get  out  and  make  inquiries  for  Lucy?  Inclination  an- 
swers, yes;  judgment  says,  no.  For  if  she  still  wishes  to  remain 
undiscovered,  a  glimpse  of  me  may  send  her  off  again  like  a  startled 
fawn.  So,  with  the  feeling  of  a  detective  who  has  successfully  run 
his  game  to  earth,  and  endeavoring  to  emulate  one  in  the  wariness 
of  my  conduct,  I  forbear  from  making  any  demonstration  whatever. 
Taking  out  my  tablets,  I  carefully  note  down  the  number  of  the 
house,  and  then  drive  off  with  my  information  to  Mr.  Jedediah 
Strutt.  He  receives  me  with  many  apologies  for  his  apparent  neg- 
lect, saying  he  had  just  arrived  in  town,  and  my  letter  with  many 
others  had  been  awaiting  his  return. 

"  As  the  young  lady's  letter  does  not  afford  any  clue  to  her  where- 
abouts, I  don't  see  that  we  stand  any  better  than  formerly,"  he  says. 

"Pardon  me,  Mr.  Strutt,  we  stand  very  much  better,  for  I  have 
at  last  discovered  traces  of  her." 

Then  I  tell  him  circumstantially  of  my  finding  of  the  ring,  and 
he  laughs  over  my  description  of  its  recovery.  My  recital,  however, 
evidently  makes  no  change  in  his  opinion,  for  as  he  takes  up  the 
ring  that  I  have  placed  upon  his  desk,  and  scrutinizes  it  carefully, 
he  says  in  a  low,  unexcited  tone: 

"I  think,  Miss  Lifford,  that  you  are  much  mistaken  in  suppos- 
ing "- 

"Mistaken!  mistaken  in  a  ring  that  was  mine  for  years;  that  is 
remarkable  for  its  setting  ?  The  letters  engraved  upon  it  might  pos- 
sibly be  a  coincidence,  but  to  think  that  the  setting,  combined  with 
the  letters,  is  also  a  coincidence  would  be,  to  say  the  very  least, 
unreasonable." 


BEHIND  THE  ARRAS.  «    69 

"Be  patient,  madam,  and  hear  me  out.  I  do  not  doubt  the 
identity  of  the  ring  "  (how  very  kind,  think  I,  and  no  doubt  express 
the  thought  in  my  face);  "  but  as  to  its  being  a  clue  to  the  young 
lady,  you  are  mistaken,  lamentably  mistaken." 

"  But  my  dear  sir,  I  saw  it  drop  from  the  carriage  not  ten  yards 
from  where  I  stood,  and  it  must-  naturally  have  fallen  from  Lucy's 
own  finger  or  from  the  finger  of  some  one  who  has  met  the  original 
owner." 

"Not  necessarily,  Miss  Lifford,  not  by  any  means  necessarily," 
slipping  the  ring  on  to  his  little  finger — his  nasty,  crooked  little  fin- 
ger— and  holding  it  up  before  him.  Then  he  looks  at  me  over  his 
spectacles  and  says  slowly  and  impressively:  "  Have  you  ever  heard 
of  pawnbrokers,  Miss  Lifford  ?  Be  patient,"  holding  up  his  hand, 
feeling  proud  of  its  unusual  adornment  doubtless,  "and  I  will  ex- 
plain to  you  my  ideas  upon  this  subject.  Let  me  demonstrate. 
Miss  Egerton — we  will  call  her  Miss  Egerton  for  convenience — left 
her  home  under  the  impression  that  she  was  the  daughter  of  the 
man  Sullivan.  None  but  a  clever  girl  could  have  escaped  as  she 
did,  eluding  the  most  skillful  detectives.  If  she  be  alive,  her  mo- 
tive for  having  fled  must  be  as  strong  as  ever,  or  she  would  have 
returned;  and,  under  the  influence  of  that  motive  she  has  talent 
enough  to  keep  herself  well  concealed,  and  wisdom  enough  not  to 
go  about  as  you  suppose  probable,  to  be  seen  and  recognized  by 
any  former  acquaintance.  But  Miss  Lifford,  I  do  not  believe  she  is 
alive — she  may  be  found  yet,  but  not  among  the  living." 

"Not  alive,  Mr.  Strutt!"  I  echo.  "You  cannot  have  read  the 
copy  that  I  sent  you  of  her  letter  to  me." 

"Yes,  madam,  I  have  read  it.     Head  it  carefully,  and  studied  it." 

"  Then  you  must  have  forgotten  it  again — forgotten  that  she  said 
'the  unkindest  cut  in  her  poor  heart  was  that  she  could  be  thought 
capable  of  the  base  wickedness  of  taking  her  own  life/  " 

"Yes,  madam,  I  remember  that  perfectly;  and  here  is  the  copy 
to  remind  me,  had  I  forgotten." 

"  What  under  the  sun  then,  do  you  mean  ?"  I  demand,  losing  all 
patience.  "  If  you  doubt  the  authenticity  of  that  paper,  I  will  pro- 
duce the  original.  I  have  often  heard  of  the  distrust  of  lawyers,  but 
I  did  not  expect  to  be  insulted  by  you,  who,  if  you  doubt  my  veracity 
in  general,  at  least  must  surely  know  that  I  could  have  no  motive 
for  making  false  statements  in  this  matter." 

"You  misconstrue  my  meaning  altogether,  Miss  Lifford.  Had 
I  any  doubts,  your  word  would  be  quite  sufficient  to  remove  them," 
he  replies,  trying  to  smooth  my  ruffled  feathers '  with  oily  words. 
"  I  feel  firmly  convinced  that  every  line  of  this  letter  was  written 
by  Miss  Egerton,  apart  from  any  assurance  of  yours." 


70  BEHIND   THE  ABBAS. 

'*  You  seem  to  have  forgotten  your  logic,  Mr.  Strutt;  for  if  she 
wrote  that  letter,  and  if  she  meant  what  she  wrote — ah!"  with  sus- 
picion coming  quickly,  "  can  that  be  your  reading  of  it? — that  she 
wrote,  not  meaning  what  she  said  ?" 

"I  am  an  old  man,"  he  answered,  "  and  I  know  something  of 
the  world.  I  have  read  letters  pathetic  and  soul-stirring,  that  have 
been  written  from  the  head,  not  from  the  heart.  As  such  things 
have  been  done  before,  analogy  teaches  that  they  can  be  repeated. 
I  liked  the  young  lady,  and  admired  her  talents,  and  I  think  that  in 
this  instance,  she  has  used  them  cleverly." 

"  Mr.  Strutt!"  and  I  rise  indignantly,  "  I,  too,  am  old  and  worldly- 
wise,  and  I  flatter  myself  know  something  of  human  nature  also. 
Besides,  I  am  a  woman,  and  better  able  to  judge  of  her  woman's 
nature  than  you,  and  I  would  be  willing  to  take  oath,  that  every 
word  of  that  paper  now  before  you,  came  from  the  very  depths  of 
her  heart.  Lucy  descend  to  such  subterfuge?  Never!  You  cannot 
make  me  believe  it!  Your  experience,  I  should  judge,  has  been 
derived  from  intercourse  with  people,  not  of  noble  natures,  such  as 
her's." 

"  Well,  well,  my  dear  madame,  do  not  get  so  excited;  for  my  say- 
ing it  does  not  make  it  so.  I  am  seldom  wrong  in  my  opinions, 
though,"  he  pompously  adds,  "  and  I  don't  think  I  am  in  this  in- 
stance. But  I  shall  at  any  rate  do  all  in  my  power;  and  if  you  will 
furnish  me  with  the  number  of  the  house  in — in  Eaton  Square,  I 
think  you  said  it  was — I  shall  let  you  know  in  a  few  days  the  result 
of  my  inquiries."  He  takes  out  his  note-book  and  I  give  him  the 
number. 

"  This  transaction  must  be  strictly  entre  nous,"  I  say  with  regained 
composure;  "  for  Sir  Griffith  is  still  incensed  at  her  for  leaving  her 
friends  so  abruptly  and  without  a  word  of  farewell." 

"  I  am  very  sorry  to  hear  that.  Believe  me,  whatever  my  opinions 
may  be,  you  have  my  sincere  good  wishes  for  a  happy  ending  to  this 
strange  affair.  For  the  ring,  it  may  have  been  lost,  pawned  or 
stolen;  sold  and  resold;  for  its  curious  workmanship,  bought  by  the 
present  possessor — owner  I  should  say — for  really,  Miss  Lifford, 
you  have  no  right  or  title  to  it." 


BEHIND  THE  ARRAS.  71 


CHAPTER  XIV. 

Poins.  Nothing  but  papers,  my  lord. 

Prince  Henry.  Let's  see  what  they  are:  read  them. 

—  Henry  IV:  Act  III,  Scene  1. 

S  usual,  late  for  breakfast!"  is  Sir  Griffith's  greeting  to  me, 
when  I  enter  the  breakfast-room,  as  he  finishes  his  second 
cup  of  coffee.  "  You'll  never  catch  the  worm,  Julia." 

"Hot  rolls,  Watkins!"  ordered  Lady  Eger ton,  languidly 
sipping  her  chocolate. 

11  It  has  always  been  my  opinion,  Sir  Griffith,"  I  say,  as  I  seat 
myself  at  the  table,  "  that  the  birds  would  gain  but  little  by  leaving 
their  snug  nests,  if  the  worm  itself  were  not  an  early  riser." 

"  Perhaps  the  worm  is  of  a  dissipated  turn,  and  stops  out  all 
night,"  chuckles  Sir  Griffith.  "How  then?  Fancy  a  worm  sing- 
ing '  We  won't  go  home  till  morning! ' — Eh  ?  " 

"  Well,"  I  proceed,  "  suppose  some  winged  fowl  should  mistake 
me,  as  would  be  most  probable,  for  a  worm,  and  snap  me  up?  I 
prefer  waiting  until  their  maws  are  filled,  and  picking  up  whatever 
stray  morsels  may  be  left  after  their  feast." 

"  Had  that  sentiment  come  from  Agnes,  it  would  not  have  sur- 
prised me,"  he  remarks,  busily  plying  knife  and  fork.  "  But  from 
you,  who  are  forever  worming  out  secrets  and  bits  of  scandal,  and 
varied  information,  it  sounds  very  strange — '  passing  strange.' ' 

"  You  cannot  accuse  me  of  ever  having  wriggled  into  your  con- 
fidence," I  retort. 

"  '  That's  wormwood." 

"What  nobleman,  I  wonder,  has  his  seat  in  Avington?"  says 
Lady  Egerton,  glancing  up  questioningly  from  the  Morning  Post, 
which  she  has  just  begun  to  read. 

"  Where  ?"  queries  Sir  Griffith,  as  he  pauses  in  the  act  of  raising 
his  cup  to  his  lips. 

"  Avington,"  repeats  her  Ladyship.  "  Here's  a  long  paragraph, 
headed  '  Romance  in  High  Life' — '  Sweets  for  the  British  Public,'  it 
should  be — devoted  entirely  to  the  private  affairs  of  a  certain  Earl 

of  A .     Some  public  man,  I  should  judge,"  running  her  eye 

again  over  the  article.     "  Can  it  be  Lord  Acreman,  I  wonder?    But 
no;  his  two  places  are  Pontfort  Court,  Moncton,  and — and — 

"The  other  place  is  in  Ireland,  isn't  it,"  I  ask.  "  County  Meath, 
I  think." 

"Yes;  somewhere  in  Ireland.  Remind  me,  Julia,  after  break- 
fast, to  look  through  the  A's  in  the  Peerage;  or,  you  might  do  it 


72  BEHIND  THE  ARRAS. 

for  me,  if  you  will.  Such  execrable  taste,  isn't  it,  Griffith,  to  pub- 
lish one's  family  affairs  in  the  public  newspapers?" 

"A  public  man  can't  always  help  himself,  my  dear,"  he  replies, 
in  a  voice  that  makes  me  glance  quickly  at  him.  As  he  holds  out  the 
cup  for  more  coffee,  his  hand  trembles  visibly,  but  his  countenance 
is  imperturbable,  and  his  voice  again  steady,  as  he  continues: 
"When  a  man  tries  to  serve  the  people,  they  think  he  belongs  to 
them,  and  take  the  right  of  ferreting  out  his  private  affairs,  in  spite 
of  any  resistance  he  may  choose  to  make.  But  let's  hear  this  arti- 
cle, Agnes.  What  is  it  all  about  ?  " 

Lady  Egerton  reads  aloud: 

(From  the  Avington  News  of  March  3.) 

KOMANCE  IN  HIGH  LIFE. — We  take  great  pleasure  in  announcing  to 
our  readers  the  extreme  good  fortune  that  has  lately  befallen  the  well 

known  and  popular  Earl  of  A .     It  has  been  a  constant  source 

of  regret  to  us  that  this  universally  beloved  Earl  and  his  beautiful 
Countess,  upon  whose  head  rest  the  benedictions  of  the  suffering 
poor,  have  had  no  heir  to  endow  with  the  rich  inheritance  of  their 
own  good  qualities,  and  to  be  to  a  future  generation — if  possible — 

what  Lord  A is  to  this.     Though  we  can  never  cease  to  deplore 

that  there  is  no  direct  inheritor  of  the  title,  yet  our  regret  is  much 
lessened  by  the  fact  that  a  richly  deserved  blessing  has  been  be- 
stowed upon  Lord  and  Lady  A ,  in  the  recent  recovery  of  a  long- 
lost  and  lovely  daughter.  Many  years  ago,  this  child  was  stolen 
from  her  parents,  and  bravely  did  they  bear  the  great  and  irremedi- 
able loss,  passing  a  lonely,  childless  life,  with  the  milk  of  human 
kindness  unsoured,  and  with  a  keener  sympathy  for  the  sufferings 
of  others. 

By  a  marvelous  chance,  unequaled  in  the  pages  of  romance,  but 
as  yet  imperfectly  explained  to  us — has  this  child  been  returned  to 
them  in  all  the  loveliness  of  early  womanhood.  Beautiful  and  ac- 
complished, may  she  be  to  them  the  blessing  that  they  themselves 
have  been  to  many;  and  may  the  good  wishes  of  the  townsfolk  of 
Avington  for  her  own  happiness  be  amply  fulfilled. 

"  Newspaper  hyperbole,"  laughs  Lady  Egerton.  "  Beautiful 
she  may  be  as  regards  personal  appearance,  but  where  would  a 
stolen  child  acquire  the  education,  refinement  and  polish  necessary 
to  fit  her  to  fill  the  position  of  a  daughter  of  a  peer  of  the  realm  ? 
They  have  my  sympathy,  and  well  for  them  if  they  are  not  obliged 
to  close  their  eyes  to  the  pity  likely  to  be  hidden  under  the  congrat- 
ulations of  the  world.  I  must  say  I  consider  myself  more  fortunate 
in  our  loss  than  they  are  in  their  gain." 

Without  comment,  Sir  Griffith  gathers  up  the  letters  that  lie  be- 
side his  plate  and  slowly  reads  the  addresses.  One  letter  he  selects 
from  the  others  and  puts  in  his  pocket  unread;  another  he  tosses 
across  the  table  unopened,  saying: 


BEHIND   THE  ARRAS.  73 

"Here,  Agnes,  this  is  for  you,  not  for  me.  Butters  is  getting 
careless."  The  rest  he  opens  but  merely  skims  them  over,  before 
he  jumps  up  from  his  seat  and  leaves  the  room,  his  face  puckered 
by  some  annoyance.  Then  I  remember  my  one  letter,  hitherto  neg- 
lected, and  opening  it,  read: 

"19  LINCOLN'S  INN  FIELDS,  W.  C.,  Monday,  March  4,  18—. 
' '  Miss  LIFFORD — Dear  Madame : 

"  If  you  have  no  engagement  for  next  Friday,  I  shall  do  myself 
the  honor  of  waiting  upon  you  at  an  early  hour  on  a  matter  of  im- 
portance. Friday  is  the  nearest  day  I  can  name,  being  the  only  one 
this  week  from  which  I  can  spare  a  few  hours. 

"  I  have  the  honor  to  be,  dear  Madame, 

"  Your  obedient  servant. 

"  JEDEDLAH  STRUTT." 

•  "Do  you  want  to  read  this,  Julia?"  and  Lady  Egerton,  handing 
me  the  letter  thrown  to  her  by  Sir  Griffith,  rises  and  glides  grace- 
fully from  the  room. 

"TRAVELERS'  CLUB,  March  4. 
"MY  DEAR  LADY  EGERTON: 

"I  called  at  your  house  this  afternoon,  and  was  greatly  disap- 
pointed to  find  no  one  at  home.  Only  two  days  in  town,  engage- 
ments of  importance  have  unfortunately  kept  me  from  paying  my 
respects  sooner,  and  not  having  heard  from  you  in  nearly  two 
months,  I  am  most  anxious  to  learn  the  state  of  Sir  Griffith's 
health,  and  also  what  news  there  may  be  of  the  missing  one.  I 
have  been  in  Italy,  as  you  know,  for  some  time  past,  and  was 
buoyed  up  from  day  to  day  by  the  hope  of  good  tidings  that  never 
reached  me.  Although  so  anxious,  I  almost  dread  to  meet  you,  not 
knowing  what  there  may  be  to  tell,  that  you  had  not  the  heart  to 
write.  However,  so  soon  as  I  can  again  '  screw  my  courage  to  the 
sticking-place,5  I  shall  do  myself  the  honor  of  calling  in  Park  Lane. 

"  With  kind  regards  to  Sir  Griffith  and  Miss  Lifford,  believe  me, 

' '  Yours  very  sincerely, 

"ALVA  INGOLSBY." 


74  BEHIND   THE  ARRAS. 


CHAPTER  XV. 

Reproachful  speech  from  either  side 
The  want  of  argument  supplied; 
They  rail'd,  revil'd — as  often  ends 
The  contests  of  disputing  friends. 

-—  Gay's  Fables. 

N  Friday  morning,  long  before  the  hour  for  fashionable  calls, 
I  am  waiting  impatiently  in  the  drawing-room  for  the  arrival 
of  Mr.  Jedediah  Strutt. 

He  showed  a  great  ignorance  of  womankind,  for  all  his 
vaunted  knowledge,  in  sending  his  note  so  long  before;  for  what 
woman  could  wait  patiently  three  whole  days  to  hear  a  matter  of  im- 
portance— under  such  circumstances,  especially?  Or,  perhaps,  he 
merely  wished  to  annoy  me;  in  which  case  I  have  amply  revenged 
myself  by  making  him  answer  my  three  notes  a  day  ever  since; 
though  in  all  his  replies,  the  wily  old  creature  never  so  much  as 
gave  me  a  hint  of  what  his  matter  of  importance  was,  but  was  still 
curt  and  secretive. 

I  am  busily  knitting  away,  when  the  servant  announces,  not  Mr. 
Strutt,  but — 

"  Mr.  Ingolsby! " 

The  first  glance  at  his  face  as  he  enters,  shows  it  to  be  radiant, 
fairly  beaming  with  some  happy  emotion,  not  in  character  with  his 
recently  received  note.  I  confess  to  a  feeling  of  disappointment, 
for  I  had  pictured  to  myself  the  dark  cloud  I  should  lift  from  his 
handsome  brow,  with  the  news  /  believe  to  be  true,  and  my  greet- 
ing is,  therefore,  somewhat  cold. 

"My  dear  Miss  Lifford!"  he  exclaims,  his  eyes  sparkling  as  he 
takes  both  my  hands;  "  pray  accept  my  warmest  congratulations  on 
this  happy  denouement." 

"lam  at  a  loss  to  understand  your  meaning,  Mr.  Ingolsby/'  I 
reply,  coldly.  "  Will  you  kindly  explain  yourself,  and  say  for  what 
I  am  to  accept  such  enthusiastic  congratulations  ?  " 

"Now  don't  put  on  that  grandiloquent  air — it  doesn't  suit  you," 
he  says,  sitting  down  beside  me  and  playing  with  my  ball  of  worsted, 
"  and  it  makes  me  uncomfortable.  If  Florence  were  but  here  now 
to  take  the  starch  out  of  your  manner." 

"And  pray  allow  me  to  ask  who  Florence  may  be? — a  fiancee,  no 
doubt." 

"  Yes,"  he  answers,  nodding  and  laughing  with  an  arch  look;  and 
with  indignation,  I  say — 

"  I  don't  see  why  /should  be  congratulated  on  such  an  occasion. 


BEHIND   THE  ARRAS.  75 

You  are  doubtless  confused  by  great  joy,  and  on  entering  spoke  the 
words  you  expected  to  hear  from  my  lips." 

"  I  most  assuredly  imagined  I  should  hear  them  echoed,"  he  re- 
plies, somewhat  reproachfully.  "  Such  a  happy  event  demands 
something  of  the  kind." 

"  I  confess  to  being  so  obtuse  as  not  to  see  how  *  the  event '  can 
affect  any  one  but  yourself,  Mr.  Ingolsby.  As  to  congratulations, 
it  would  be  to  the  young  lady  I  should  offer  them,  for  her  conquest 
of  such  a  paragon  of  consistency  and  constancy  as  yourself." 

"  Thanks,  Miss  Lifford,"  he  says  quite  good  humoredly,  not  ap- 
pearing to  notice  the  sarcasm  in  my  tone.  "  It's  all  one — or  soon 
will  be,  I  hope  sincerely — to  whom  you  offer  them;  and  I'm  glad  to 
see  you  fully  appreciate  me." 

His  assurance  in  talking  so  coolly  and  shamelessly  quite  takes  my 
breath  away,  and  there  is  silence  for  a  moment  as  he  unravels  my 
knitting." 

"  You  have  a  good  memory, r  I  at  last  remark. 

"  I  flatter  myself  I  have;  and  I  don't  intend  to  forget  your  cruel 
conduct  in  not  letting  me  know  the  good  news.  I  am  indebted  to 
an  accident  for  my  enlightenment,  and  no  thanks  to  you,  Miss 
Lifford/' 

"  Indeed;  I  am  very  happy  to  hear  it,"  I  reply,  thinking  he  must 
refer  to  Lucy's  letter,  about  which  he  has  probably  heard  from  Mr. 
Strutt,  yet  wondering  angrily  how  he  dare  allude  to  it  in  the  same 
breath  with  the  announcement  which  he  has  just  made,  and  feeling 
too  indignant  to  gratify  him  by  speaking  of  it.  "  But  it  strikes  me 
you  must  have  learned  the  art  of  exaggeration  from  jour  fiancee,  for 
nothing  but  very  trifling  good  news  has  it  been  my  good  luck  to 
hear  lately." 

"  Now  what  is  the  use  of  keeping  up  that  air  of  ignorance,  when 
I  am  in  the  secret  ?  You  are  awfully  bitter  this  morning  about 
something.  I  was  never  so  thoroughly  and  completely  sat  upon  in 
my  life.  I  really  wish  she  were  here  to  soften  you  a  little." 

"  If  I  am  bitter,  Mr.  Ingolsby,  you  are  vague  and  incoherent;  and 
I  am  utterly  at  a  loss  to  comprehend  what  secret  you  allude  to." 

"  Oh,  very  well.  Keep  up  the  jest  if  it  pleases  you.  I  suppose 
you  will  go  so  far  as  to  pretend  not  to  know  her,  when  she  and  her 
mother  come  to  call?" 

Thoroughly  roused,  I  tell  him:  "The  young  woman  and  her 
mother  will  be  wise  not  to  try  the  experiment  of  calling.  Of  course 
they  can't  though,  for  Lady  Egerton  will  never  consent  to  call  upon 
them." 

"  Indeed!"  and  it  is  his  turn  to  look  dignified  and  to  speak  with 


76  BEHIND  THE  ARRAS. 

compressed  lips.  "  Pray,  why  not?"  lam  too  angry  to  answer, 
and  he  goes  on:  "  Your  knowledge  of  good  breeding  seems  to  be  on 
the  decrease.  I  cannot  accuse  you,  Miss  Lifford,  of  possessing  a 
good  memory,  and  I  have  my  doubts  of  your  being  troubled  with  a 
heart." 

"  I  beg  to  inform  you,  sir,  that  my  heart  is  here  in  its  proper 
place — not  flying  around  at  the  beck  and  call  of  every  one  who  may 
ask  for  it,  as  is  that  of  a  certain  person  of  my  acquaintance." 

"As  is  mine  of  course.  I  must  really  return  thanks  and  observe 
that  I  am  not  aware  of  having  given  any  signs  of  fickleness.  Whereas 
your  remarks  in  regard  to  Florence " 

' '  How  dare  you  mention  that  name  in  the  same  breath  that  you 
deny  the  charge  of  fickleness!"  and  I  jump  up,  no  longer  able  to 
suppress  my  anger.  "You  should  be  ashamed  of  yourself,  but  I 
don't  believe  you  know  the  meaning  of  the  word.  Do  you  wish  to 
ins  alt  me  by  speaking  in  this  manner  when  you  are  aware  of  how  much 
I  know  of  your  pretended  love  in  the  past  ?  You  will  please  excuse 
me,  Mr.  Ingolsby,  I  have  an  engagement  which  calls  me  away  from 
your  very  pleasant  society;"  and  I  am  about  to  leave  the  room  when 
he  places  his  hand  on  the  door-handle,  barring  my  passage  out. 

1 '  Wait  one  moment,  Miss  Lifford.  It  cannot  be  possible  that  you 
are  really  ignorant  of  the  facts  of  the  case,  and  that  we  have  been 
playing  at  cross-purposes  ?  I  thought  at  first  that  we  were  only 
having  a  mock  passage-at-arms,  but — do  you  mean  to  tell  me  you 
haven't  heard  the  story  of  Flo " 

"I  mean  to  tell  you,  young  man,  that  I  don't  wish  to  hear  that 
name  again;  and  you  will  have  the  goodness  to  let  me  pass." 

At  this  moment  the  handle  is  turned  from  without,  Alva  moves 
away,  and  Mr.  Strutt,  bearer  of  important  news,  is  announced. 


BEHIND  THE  ARRAS.  77 


BOOK    SECOND, 


CHAPTER  I. 

I  have  heard, 

And  from  men  learned,  that  before  the  touch 
(The  common  coarser  touch)  of  good  or  ill, 
That  oftentimes  a  subtle  sense  informs 
Some  spirits  of  the  approach  of  things  to  be! 

—  Proctor. 

'O  Lucy  Egerton  Sir  Griffith's  project  of  a  masquerade  for 
the  celebration  of  her  birthday,  did  not  long  remain  a 
secret.  By  her  own  penetration,  by  catching  occasional  in- 
advertently dropped  words,  she  could  not,  although  without 
any  particular  desire  to  do  so,  but  discover  what  was  the  intended 
surprise  that  Sir  Griffith  had  planned  for  her.  Then  she  in  her 
turn  began  to  plot  and  scheme,  and  in  the  retirement  of  her  own 
rooms  prepared  a  disguise  for  herself,  not  being  sure  that  one  to 
her  taste  had  been  chosen  for  her,  and  determined,  in  any  event,  to 
glean  an  extra  share  of  the  evening's  amusement  by  puzzling  those 
who  would  expect  to  see  her  in  another  character. 

The  costume  she  formed  was  not,  by  any  means,  complex — only 
the  simple  dress  of  a  housemaid.  With  keen  anticipation  of  pleas- 
ure, she  gave  odd  moments  to  the  altering  of  a  brown  merino,  so 
that  it  might  not  be  recognized  as  hers,  and  busied  herself  with 
making  the  necessary  muslin  apron  and  little  white  cap  of  the  order; 
yet  the  approach  of  the  eventful  evening  brought  a  strange  and 
increasing  sense  of  sadness.  For  days  the  jaunty  cap  and  apron 
lay  undisturbed  in  their  box;  the  brown  merino  hung  neglected 
in  her  clothes-press.  It  no  longer  gave  her  the  pleasure  it  had 
done  at  first  to  take  them  out  and  admire  her  handiwork,  while  she 
mused  on  what  she  should  say  and  do  when  she  had  put  them  on. 
During  this  time  she  might,  at  any  opportune  moment,  reasonably 
expect  a  declaration  from  Ingolsby,  yet,  as  girls  will  sometimes  do 
at  this  greatest  and  most  pleasant  crisis  of  their  lives,  she  avoided 
a  tete-a-tete  with  him,  and  when  they  were  unavoidably  thrown  to- 
gether, took  refuge  in  argument  and  in  quarreling.  These  days 
should  have  been  to  her  the  brightest  within  her  memory,  and  yet 
they  were  not.  "Why,  she  could  not  have  told,  unless  it  were  that 


78  BEHIND  THE  ARRAS. 

an  occasional  constraint  in  his  manner,  an  oft  repeated  pause  in 
bis  talk,  as  he  hesitated  over  some  soft  nothing,  were  sufficient  to 
make  her  doubtful  of  his  earnestness,  and  so  cause  her  unacknowl- 
edged distrust. 

Whatever  the  reason  might  be,  when  the  hour  at  last  arrived  for 
the  great  surprise — the  grand  climax — when  Sir  Griffith  divulged 
his  scheme  for  the  evening's  amusement",  she  was  unusually  low- 
spirited.  Her  beautiful  dress  of  Cybele  was  brought  to  her,  and 
she  tried  to  fight  against  melancholy,  accusing  herself  of  ingratitude 
toward  those  who  were  seeking  to  give  her  pleasure. 

Whatever  one's  real  feelings  may  be,  it  is  possible,  when  one 
makes  the  effort,  to  at  least  appear  to  be  light-hearted  and  happy; 
and  none  would  have  guessed  who  heard  Lucy's  merry  laugh,  or 
could  have  seen  the  smiling  face  behind  her  mask,  how  heavy  was 
the  heart — heavy  in  an  unreasonable,  persistent,  unintelligible  way — 
with  which  she  entered  the  ball-room,  clad  in  the  gay  dress  of  Queen 
Cybele. 

It  sometimes  happens  on  a  winter's  day  that  a  broad  belt  of 
clouds,  encircling  the  horizon,  leaves  a  space  of  blue  above,  through 
which  the  mid-day  sun  shines  down  upon  earth  so  brightly,  that, 
if  not  chancing  to  glance  upward,  one  would  never  guess  the  storm 
which  brews  so  near.  Thus  it  is  that  sorrows  unseen  crowd  around 
us,  ever  ready  to  meet  above,  and  come  crushing  down  upon  us 
with  a  weight  of  darkness. 

Here  stood  this  girl  in  all  her  pride  of  youth  and  beauty,  and 
those  who  saw  only  the  bright  and  gay  surroundings,  indicative  of 
wealth  and  position,  how  little  could  they  know  of  the  lowering 
clouds  that  hung  heavily  upon  her  horizon,  ready  at  the  very  mo- 
ment to  join  together  and  shut  out  the  sun  of  prosperity  that  now 
shed  its  rays  upon  her! 

Not  long  could  she  sustain  the  character  of  Cybele.  It  soon  be- 
came unendurable,  and  stealing  away  to  her  room,  she  assumed  the 
simpler  one  she  had  herself  prepared;  and  then,  hidden  in  a  corner 
unnoticed  and  unsought,  hoping  for  pleasure  as  a  mere  spectator, 
she  overheard  the  tale  told  by  the  two  old  gossiping  dowagers. 

It  was  the  story  of  her  origin  that  she  heard,  and  she  believed  it; 
but  it  came  upon  her  so  suddenly,  and  unexpectedly,  that  at  first 
she  did  not  realize  the  full  force  of  what  was  embodied  in  the  narra- 
tive. But  when  she  had  fled  from  the  gay  scene,  dazzling  and  con- 
fusing in,  the  extreme,  and  had  reached  a  portion  of  the  balcony 
without,  which  had  been  deserted  for  the  dance,  the  cool  night  air 
calmed  her  throbbing  pulses,  and  for  the  first  time  it  came  upon  her, 
in  all  its  cruel  reality,  that  she  was  not  what  she  had  always  sup- 


BEHIND   THE  ARRAS.  79 

posed  herself  to  be.  The  thought  was  unendurable  to  one  of  her 
proud  temperament,  and  never  doubting  the  truth  of  what  she  had 
heard,  her  memory  turned  with  bitterness  toward  those  who  had  de- 
ceived her.  What  though  they  had  lavished  affection  and  wealth 
upon  her,  giving  her  everything  that  could  be  wished  for  and  an- 
ticipating her  eveiy  desire,  they  had  deceived  her  in  this!  They 
had  fostered  a  pride  of  birth — and  what  was  she  ?  Not  only  the 
child  of  a  common  village  laborer,  but  one  who  had  killed  his  wife 
— her  mother! — in  a  drunken  fury.  Had  they  never  educated  her, 
never  heaped  these  luxuries  upon  her,  she  would  not  now  feel  the 
weight  of  all  this.  Could  she  leave  her  station  in  society  to  join 
that  man  Sullivan?  Never!  Yet,  though  she  could  not,  her  sense 
of  ri»-ht  forbade  that  she  should  occupy  a  false  position;  and  as 
these  thoughts  passed  through  her  mind,  she  determined  on  a  course 
to  pursue.  Taking  her  fate  into  her  own  hands,  she  would  flee — 
assume  an  humbler  position  in  the  social  scale,  where  unknown  she 
wrould  not  be  pointed  at  as  one  who  had  enjoyed  fine  feathers  till 
they  had  fallen  from  her.  She  would  flee  from  real  and  false  par- 
ents alike — from  friends — from  society — from  him! — and  he  just 
then  coming  out,  disturbed  her  meditations  and  told  her  of  his  love 
and  asked  her  to  be  his  wife.  Then  she  found — unhappy  girl ! — that 
there  was  something  which,  though  it  strengthened  her  purpose, 
yet  made  the  pain  of  this  more  poignant  than  it  would  otherwise 
have  been.  Loving  him  as  she  did,  could  she  permit  him  to  marry 
one  against  whom  she  knew  not  what  scandal  might  be  erected  on 
the  foundation  of  this  one  truth  ?  Would  he  not  have  to  fight 
with  society  for  her  sake  ?  Would  he  not,  perhaps,  be  ashamed  of 
her? — and  her  blood  tingled  at  the  thought;  and  though  she  could 
not  blame  him,  yet  she  felt  it  would  be  more  than  she  could  bear. 
And  as  she  put  her  head  down  on  his  shoulder,  she  thought,  ' '  per- 
haps, if  he  knew  what  I  know,  he  would  not  be  speaking  so.  Shall 
I  tell  him  all  and  try  him  ? — and  perchance,  find  him  wanting?  No, 
no ! — let  me  carry  away  into  the  world  the  image  of  one  noble  and 
good,  as  I  have  always  known  him;  and  neither  take  away  all  light 
from  my  own  future,  nor,  by  my  selfishness,  ruin  his." 

Starting  away,  she  told  him,  with  a  composure  she  had  not  thought 
a  moment  before  she  could  have  assumed,  that  his  hopes  were  never 
to  be  fulfilled;  and  yet,  unconsciously  she  let  him  know  that  she 
loved  him,  and  with  his  kiss  on  her  brow  wandered  off  alone  into 
the  garden,  self-communing,  her  mind  busy  weaving  plans  for  a 
secret  flight. 

Unconsciously  her  wavering  steps  took  her  down  over  the  sloping 
lawn;  down  to  the  lakeside,  through  the  weeping  willows,  on  to  the 


80  BEHIND  THE  ARRAS. 

bank — to  the  very  water's  edge.  She  gazed  at  the  calm  surface 
which  seemed  to  her  excited  fancy  to  have  a  strange  fascination  in 
its  cold  rippling  glitter.  All  was  like  a  night-mare — her  spirit  would 
have  fled  from  the  spot,  but  the  water  held  her  as  though  by  iron 
bands.  Then  it  seemed  as  if  a  hidden  power  drew  her  forward — on, 
on  towards  the  glitter  and  ripple  of  the  water  into  the  little  boat 
that  lay  upon  its  bosom.  With  every  nerve  quivering,  she  took  up 
the  oars  and  rowed  herself  out  over  the  silvery  surface  toward  the 
one  reflection  of  the  round  white-faced  full  moon.  She  looked  at 
the  pale  orb  as  it  seemed  to  lie  in  the  water  at  her  feet,  and  then 
glanced  up  at  it  overhead,  and  as  her  eyes  rested  there  the  almost 
painful  silence  was  broken  as  a  breeze  swept  gently  by,  sighing 
sadly  through  the  poplars.  A  sudden  burst  of  music  came  from  the 
ball-room  with  the  hum  of  laughing,  happy  voices;  a  little  bird 
twittered  and  chirped  in  its  nest  near  by;  a  frog  croaked  hoarsely 
from  among  the  reeds;  an  owl  hooted  in  its  tree — nature  seemed 
with  one  accord  to  arouse,  and  ask  this  girl  what  she  was  about  to 
do.  The  spell  that  had  bound  her  seemed  to  break  as  the  silence 
was  broken,  and  she  put  the  question  to  herself.  Shuddering,  she 
rose  hastily  to  her  feet,  forgetful  of  her  insecure  position,  conscious 
alone  of  the  horror  of  herself,  and  the  great  yearning  for  help  and 
pity  that  swelled  in  her  heart.  Passionately  she  clasped  her  hands 
and  raised  them  toward  heaven  as  all  her  soul  spoke  in  the  sobbing 
prayer: 

"From  pride  and  temptation,  oh  Lord  protect  me!" 
As  the  prayer  was  wafted  upward,  the  soft  breeze  once  more  came 
floating  by,  and  in  its  passage  swayed  the  boat  with  sufficient  force 
to  make  her  lose  her  balance,  as  she  stood  upright.  Tottering,  she 
fell,  and  as  she  felt  herself  nearing  the  water  that  had  but  now  ap- 
peared so  attractive,  she  shrank  from  meeting  that  death  which  she 
had  so  recently  longed  to  embrace. 

Ah,  human  nature — human  nature!  is  it  not  always  thus?  "We 
crave,  we  strive  for  an  object  with  all  our  heart,  and  when  it  is  at- 
tained, our  eyes  are  opened  to  its  defects,  and  we  would  shun  it; 
yet,  not  learning  by  sad  experience,  we  still  wish  with  a  great  desire 
for  others,  which  in  their  turn  prove  as  unsatisfactory  as  those  that 
have  gone  before.  And,  alas!  after  all  our  wasted  hopes  and  desires, 
how  often  will  the  unpleasing  object — its  charm  lost  as  we  grasp  it 
— cling  to  us  in  spite  of  all  efforts  to  cast  it  off.  Fortunately  it  was 
not  to  be  so  for  Lucy.  Her  hand  had  not  yet  closed  upon  that  of 
death.  By  a  lucky  chance  Ingolsby  was  near  and  saved  her  from 
the  watery  grave  which  he  then  thought  she  had  sought  of  her  own 
free  will. 


BEHIND  THE  AREAS.  81 

She  Lad  not  lost  consciousness  in  falling,  and  as  she  rose  in  the 
water  she  felt  a  strong  arm  thrown  around  her  and  knew  that  she 
was  saved  by  one  who  was  swimming  with  her  to  the  bank.  "When, 
dripping  and  cold,  she  felt  herself  laid  upon  the  grass  while  some 
one  supported  her  head,  she  opened  her  eyes  and  looked,  with  no 
sensation  of  surprise,  into  Ingolsby's  face.  She  knew  that  it  was 
he  before  she  saw  him,  as  you  do  sometimes  feel  the  presence  of  a 
loved  one.  Gladly  would  she  have  died  there  and  then — pardon 
her,  she  was  only  a  romantic  girl — for  the  arms  of  him  she  loved 
were  close  around  her,  while  his  face  was  bent  very  near  to  hers,  as 
he  tried  to  see  by  the  moonlight  if  she  were  conscious.  When  he 
smiled  with  relief  at  her  wide-open  eyes,  and  caught  her  up  again 
hastily  in  his  arms,  striding  away  with  her  toward  the  house,  she 
knew  that  his  burden  was  very  dear  to  him;  for  he  laid  his  cheek 
tenderly  against  hers  and  called  her  endearing  names.  Yet  her 
heart  gave  no  responsive  throb  of  joy.  She  knew  that  it  was  for  the 
last  time.  If  he  could  ever  forget  that  she  was  not  his  equal  in  the 
eyes  of  the  world,  she  could  not — no,  not  even  now  as  she  lay  in  his 
arms. 

She  knew  that  she  might  trust  him  not  to  cause  a  scene;  so  she 
spoke  no  word,  and  he  avoided  as  she  wished  the  walks  where 
guests  might  be  loitering,  and  took  her  in  by  a  private  way  through 
empty  halls  up  to  her  own  room,  laid  her  upon  a  sofa  and  rang  for 
her  maid. 

"  Your  mistress  accidentally  fell  into  the  lake,"  he  said.  "Attend 
to  her  quietly  and  don't  disturb  any  one." 

He  left  her  then,  and  her  eyes  followed  him  to  the  door  with  a 
grateful,  yet— as  he  construed  it— imploring  glance,  that  influenced 
him  long  in  keeping  what  he  thought  to  be  her  secret. 

Still  her  purpose  remained  unshaken.  She  would  leave  this 
house  before  her  courage  flagged,  and  to  succeed  she  must  avoid 
drawing  attention  to  herself. 

"  Hodges,"  she  said  to  her  maid,  who  had  dried  her  and  put  other 
clothes  upon  her,  indulging  the  while  in  exclamations  of  wonder 
and  sympathy;  "  Hodges,  is  my  hair  dry  enough  to  be  re-dressed?" 

"Miss?" 

"  Is  my  hair  dry  enough  to  be  re-dressed  ?" 

' '  Why,  miss,  you  don't  surely  mean — " 

"  I  mean,  Hodges,"  with  determination,  "  that  when  my  hair  is 
sumciently  dry  I  wish  it  rearranged.  I  am  going  down  stairs  again." 

' '  But  Miss  Lucy,  mem ;  you'll  be  sick.    I  am  sure  my  lady,  mem — " 

"  Never  mind  'my  lady/  Hodges,  but  hurry.  I  want  to  be  there 
6 


82  BEHIND  THE  ARRAS. 

before  supper,  at  the  unmasking.     If  you  don't  help  me  I  must 
dress  myself." 

' '  That  be  somethin'  the  ladies  I  'as  served  'as  never  'ad  to  do  yet, 
Miss,"  with  offended  dignity.  "I  knows  my  dooty  an'  I  does  it.* 
If  I  persumed  over  much  in  hattempting  a  word  of  hadvice,  I  beg 
parding,  I'm  sure,  Miss;  and  I  shall  remember,  Miss,  not  to  offend 
again. " 

J*  You  have  not  offended  me,"  said  Lucy,  wearily,  as  she  sat  be- 
fore her  glass  watching  the  rapid  fingers  that  braided  and  arranged 
her  hair;  "but  I  like  to  have  my  own  way,  Hodges,  you  know,  and 
I  am  too  tired  to  argue  about  it. " 

"Humph!"  said  the  woman  to  herself;  "too  tired  to  argy,  but 
not  too  tired  to  dance  and  caper,  and  laugh  and  chatter  till  day- 
light." 

Because  a  brain  fatigued  does  not  necessarily  include  bodily  ex- 
haustion, but  is  sometimes  best  served  by  physical  exertion,  if  you 
but  knew  it,  Hodges. 

Returning  to  the  ball-room  with  a  vague  sense  of  misery  upon 
her,  and  with  a  dull,  heavy  aching  at  her  heart,  she  yet  forced  her- 
self to  laugh  and  talk,  and  the  flightiness  of  her  words  and  actions 
was  looked  upon  by  all  as  being  mere  exuberance  of  spirits;  but 
when  the  festivities  finally  drew  to  a  close,  she  fled  gratefully  to  her 
own  apartments,  which  seemed,  in  their  quiet,  a  perfect  ark  of  ref- 
uge. Dismissing  her  sleepy  maid,  she  sank,  with  a  sense  of  relief, 
despite  the  numbness  and  leaden  heaviness  of  her  heart,  into  a 
chair  before  the  fire.  The  bright  firelight  played  with  the  golden 
tint  of  her  hair,  as  it  swept  loosely  over  the  hands  that  pressed  her 
burning  cheeks,  and  as  a  flame  died  out,  leaving  a  dark  shadow  on 
the  falling  tresses,  another  leaping  forth,  supplied  its  place,  and 
recalled  the  shade  of  gold.  And  so,  minute  after  minute,  the  reflect- 
ion of  the  flickering  blaze  played  at  hide-and-seek  in  the  streaming 
hair,  and  in  the  dark  eyes  that  gazed  into  its  glowing  depths,  review- 
ing the  happy  past,  and  maturing  plans  for  the  future,  which  seemed 
so  dark  and  hopeless.  The  present  she  cast  from  her  mind,  until 
receding  further  into  the  past,  it  could  be  looked  upon  more  se- 
renely from  a  distance. 

The  minutes  passed  and  lengthened  into  hours,  and  the  flames 
forgot  their  game  of  hide-and-seek,  and  sank  slowly  and  sleepily 
back  into  their  bed  of  glowing  coals.  Occasionally,  one  more  lively 
than  the  rest,  would  leap  forth  and  try  to  rouse  the  others  into  re- 
newed play;  but  at  last  even  they  sank  into  perfect  rest,  and  draw- 
ing over  them  their  coverlet  of  ashes,  died  away  for  ever  in  sleep. 

Then  the  first  light  of  dawn  crept  slowly  into  the  room,  but  still 


BEHIND   THE  ARRAS.  83 

the  dark  eyes  looked  steadily  into  the  half-empty  grate.  Not  a 
movement  had  there  been,  beyond  the  stirring  of  a  hair,  or  the 
quiver  of  a  muscle,  in  these  long  hours.  The  day  brightened  grad- 
ually, the  sun  rose  above  the  horizon,  and  a  stray  beam  stealing 
through  the  shutters,  at  last  roused  the  musing  girl  into  life  and 
activity. 

Wildly  she  started  up,  tossing  back  her  falling  hair.  Was  it  too 
late  for  action?  Had  she  wasted  too  many  precious  minutes  in  idle 
dreams?  No,  no!  there  was  yet  time  for  everything;  and  in  a 
moment  her  busy  hands  were  at  work.  What  was  done?  A  clothes- 
press  was  opened,  a  few  plain  dresses  taken  forth,  and  placed  in  a 
small,  black,  leather  traveling-bag,  with  some  books,  writing  ma- 
terials, and  a  few  trifles  of  no  intrinsic  value — only  mementos  of 
days  gone  by.  When  the  bag  was  closed  and  locked,  she  turned  to 
the  window,  threw  up  the  sash  and  breathed  in  the  fresh  morning 
air,  as  one  in  a  fever  would  drink  cold  water.  The  view  was  so 
peacefully  beautiful,  with  a  mist  just  rising  from  tree  and  hedge, 
discovering  the  deer  trooping  back  from  their  morning  draught  at 
the  lake's  edge;  but  a  glance  at  the  sun  showed  it  to  be  well  up  in 
the  heavens,  and  with  alarm,  she  sprang  away  from  the  window, 
hastily  caught  up  the  bag,  and  threw  over  her  arm  a  brown  dress, 
water-stained,  green  with  crushed  grass,  and  still  damp  from  its 
recent  immersion  in  the  lake.  Moving  to  the  door,  she  cautiously 
opened  it  and  looked  without.  No  one  was  stirring;  and  drawing 
her  dressing-gown  around  her,  she  stealthily  crossed  the  hall,  and 
passed  into  a  long  corridor  that  led  past  the  doors  of  vacant  rooms. 
A  turn  to  the  right,  another  to  the  left,  up  a  flight  of  stairs  to  an- 
other long  corridor,  and  a  few  steps  down  into  a  triangular  room 
used  as  a  repository  for  odds  and  ends  of  broken  furniture,  luggage 
and  unused  articles  of  all  kinds. 

Pushing  her  way  through  the  labyrinth  of  lumber,  she  passed  be- 
hind a  pile  of  mildewed  books,  and  with  a  readiness  of  hand  that 
proved  her  perfect  acquaintance  with  its  secret,  found  and  touched 
a  hidden  spring  which  slid  back  a  panel  in  the  wall,  revealing  a 
small  room  beyond. 

It  was  one  of  her  childhood's  discoveries,  which,  with  a  reticence 
unusual  in  children,  she  had  kept  to  herself,  for  no  weightier  reason 
than  that  she  liked  to  have  a  secret,  and  it  was  a  nice  hiding-place 
and  play-room.  Many  were  the  stolen  minutes  she  had  passed 
there,  first  with  dolls,  then  with  books;  later  it  had  been  her  favorite 
spot  for  meditation  when  she  struggled  for  mastery  over  temper. 
This  unruly  spirit,  a  flaw  in  her  character,  she  fondly  thought  was 
conquered;  yet  still  it  lived  and  lingered  in  her,  latent,  but  ever 


84  BEHIND  THE  AERAS. 

ready  to  break  forth  in  some  new,  and,  at  first,  unrecognized  form, 
and  fiercely  rage  in  all  its  fury,  until,  detected  for  what  it  was,  she 
crushed  it  down  once  more.  Even  now  had  it  rushed  forth  with  over- 
whelming power;  for  call  it  what  she  might — pride,  sensitiveness, 
duty — it  was  the  fiery,  not  yet  thoroughly  disciplined  spirit  which  pos- 
sessed her  that  now  brought  her  with  a  fixed  purpose  to  this  wierd, 
ghostly  room.  Ah,  it  was  a  ghostly  looking  room,  one  likely  to  strike 
terror  to  a  childish  heart,  and  yet,  whatever  fear  she  had  ever  felt,  had 
been  a  sort  of  pleasure  to  her,  and  she  had  always  loved  the  place. 
The  walls  were  hung  with  torn  and  musty  tapestry;  air,  a  dim  light, 
and  occasionally  a  little  rain,  admitted  through  a  broken,  stained 
glass  skylight  which  cast  fantastic  shadows  on  the  once  polished  floor. 
In  the  far  corner  stood  a  high,  old-fashioned  carved  oak  bedstead 
stripped  of  its  ancient  hangings;  beside  it  a  high-backed  chair,  with 
treacherous -looking  spindle-shanked  legs,  slender  enough  to  be 
suggestive  of  untimely  weakness.  To  the  right  of  the  door  hung  a 
mirror,  the  quicksilver  all  granulated  and  streaked,  giving  forth 
reflections  as  dismal  and  contorted  as  those  of  any  misguided  mind. 
Just  beneath  it  in  a  tiny  cradle,  where  it  had  rested  peacefully  for 
seven  long  years,  lay  a  one-legged,  armless,  noseless  doll,  neglected 
and  forgotten.  Its  appearance  brought  a  faint,  quickly -passing 
smile  to  Lucy's  lips  as  she  paused  an  instant  on  the  threshhold. 
Then  her  glance  passed  on  to  the  far  end  of  the  room,  where,  upon 
the  dusty  wall  hung  a  picture — it  seemed  to  be  a  portrait — of  a  boy 
with  curly  hair,  and  laughing,  guileless  eyes.  Moving  across  the 
floor,  she  clasped  her  hands  and  looked  up  at  the  innocent  young 
face. 

"Poor  boy!  poor  Guy!"  she  said,- "Yes,  you  must  be  Guy,  the 
outcast  from  society;  or  why  did  I  find  you,  pretty  child,  so  many 
years  ago  hidden  away  from  sight.  I  little  knew  your  story,  or  who 
or  what  you  were  when  I  brought  you  here  in  secret,  from  fear  that  if 
I  spoke  you  would  be  taken  from  me.  You  have  had  a  strange  fas- 
cination for  me,  Guy,  as  child,  as  girl,  and  now  as  woman,  for  I  am 
a  woman  henceforth.  And  you,  you  are  a  man  now,  surely — but 
what  sort  of  a  man,  poor  fellow!  You  are  a  comfort  to  me,  Guy — a 
sad  sort  of  comfort;  for  your  fate  seems  so  much  worse  than  mine, 
that  I  can  take  heart  and  go  about  the  work  that  is  before  me.  I 
am  going  away  from  you  soon,  Guy,  to  leave  you  hanging  here, 
perhaps  never  to  be  seen  again  by  human  eyes,  till  you  are  faded 
out  of  all  likeness  to  yourself.  I  wish  I  could  take  you  with  me,  to 
be  always  before  me  as  young  and  innocent,  not  as  the  image  my 
mind  will  surely  form  of  the  murderer.  Oh,  that  fearful  word! 
Forgive  me,  Guy,  that  I  could  have  applied  it  to  you,  for  you  must 


BEHIND   THE  ARRAS.  85 

be  my  confidant  and  help  me  to  pass  the  weary  hours  that  I  am 
here.  But  I  must  work.  It  is  the  best,  the  surest  remedy  for  a 
heart-ache  like  mine." 

She  cast  off  her  wrapper  then,  and  put  on  the  brown  dress  she 
had  brought  upon  her  arm.  "  If  any  one  sees  me  by  accident,"  she 
thought,  "they  will  take  me  for  the  uneasy  spirit  of  one  who  has 
drowned  herself."  The  correctness  of  this  conjecture  was  fully 
proved  by  the  event.  Then  she  sat  down  upon  the  dusty  chair  for- 
getful of  her  resolve,  and  said  to  herself  how  much  harder  to  bear 
than  was  all  else  that  he  should  believe  her  capable  of  the  act. 
"Yet  I  was  almost  guilty  when  he  took  me  from  the  lake — guilty  in 
thought — and  not  knowing  that  I  fell  in  accidentally,  he  will  be  the 
more  ready  to  believe  that  I  have  made  away  with  myself.  Better 
for  him,  better  for  him,  that  it  should  be  so.  He  will  despise,  and 
despising  forget  me,  and  love  again  as  I  can  never  do.  Oh,  I  could 
bear  anything,  everything,  if  he  but  knew  the  truth;  knew  that  I 
fled  to  save  him  from  the  bitter  alternative  of  a  miserable  marriage 
or  sullied  honor!" 

How  selfish  even  the  purest  love  will  sometimes  make  one!  She 
knew  it  would  be  best  for  him  to  think  her  dead  and  gone  with  a 
stain  upon  her  name,  yet  she  would  have  him  know  that  she  lived 
and  was  innocent.  Are  there  not  many  who,  without  a  pang  of 
conscience,  would  shut  up  a  loved  one  from  the  world  to  live  only 
for  them,  while  they  lived  for  everyone,  and  enjoying  all  things 
themselves,  without  a  thought  of  faithlessness,  would  yet  wonder 
why  the  other  should  experience  any  feeling  of  jealousy  ?  Yet  they 
think  they  love  unselfishly !  Lucy's  love  was  being  purified  of  self- 
ishness by  self-abnegation. 

"Hark!" 

She  started  to  her  feet  and  stood  listening  intently  as  a  door  shut 
noisily  in  the  distance,  and  the  echo  died  slowly  away. 

"  I  thought  they  had  discovered  my  absence  already;  but  if  they 
had  there  would  be  confusion  and  noise  enough  to  reach  my  ears 
even  here.  The  time  has  not  come  yet,  and  oh,  how  I  wish  it  were 
over." 

With  a  sigh  she  turned  to  the  black  leather  traveling-bag,  opened 
it  and  took  out  writing  materials,  and  dusting  the  table  laid  them 
upon  it.  Then  she  wrote  one  line  upon  a  bit  of  paper. 

"  The  less  I  write,  the  less  I  shall  reveal,"  she  thought. 

But  how  cold,  how  heartless  the  words  looked,  staring  up  at  her 
from  the  paper. 

1  have  gone.     Search  will  be  useless. 

She  hesitated.     The  Egertons  would  draw  the  desired  conclusion 


86  BEHIND  THE  ARRAS. 

from  these  abrupt  sentences,  and  no  others  she  could  think  of  would 
serve  her  purpose  so  well;  but  rather  than  leave  them  this,  she  would 
write  nothing.  Ah,  but  they  must  be  induced  to  begin  the  search 
at  once  so  that  it  should  soon  be  declared  hopeless.  These  first 
three  words  would  inform  them  of  her  flight,  while  the  other  four 
would  prompt  them  to  seek  her,  at  the  same  time  that  it  prepared 
them  for  failure.  She  closed  her  lips  tightly  and  rose  from  the  table. 

"If  I  should  be  seen  in  the  act  of  leaving  this  in  my  room,  I  can 
still  return  here  during  the  day,  though  it  would  not  suit  my  plans 
so  well  as  that  they  should  think  I  had  had  time  to  get  far  away  be- 
fore they  discovered  my  absence.  It  was  stupid  to  forget  it,  and 
perhaps  I  had  better  run  no  risks. " 

But  still  she  moved  across  the  floor  and,  opening  the  panel  again, 
walked  boldly  forth  into  the  larger  room  beyond.  Passing  cautiously 
through  the  piles  of  abandoned  and  broken  furniture,  she  gained 
the  long  corridor,  and  stepping  quickly  and  noiselessly  along, 
reached  her  own  door  unperceived.  A  moment  she  paused  on  the 
threshold  of  this  room  she  had  left  so  lately  never  expecting  to  see 
again,  and  to  re-enter  which  she  knew  would  entail  the  taking  of  a 
second  farewell  of  the  familiar  objects  within;  but  while  she  stood 
hesitating,  voices  sounded  in  the  hall  beneath,  and  a  footfall  was 
heard  on  the  broad  staircase  that  ended  just  beside  where  she  stood. 
To  retreat  without  being  seen  was  impossible;  the  only  way  of  es- 
cape lay  before  her.  Quickly  turning  the  door-handle,  she  glided 
into  her  room,  and  closing  the  door  softly  behind  her,  walked 
straight  to  the  dressing-table  and  pinned  to  the  pincushion  that  scrap 
of  paper  with  those  few  curt  words :  /  have  gone — search  will  be  use- 
less. At  that  instant  a  knock  sounded  on  the  door,  and  she  sprang 
lightly  away  into  the  adjoining  room,  and  stood  there  breathless, 
just  within  the  doorway.  Only  an  instant  she  stood,  for  that  paper 
was  there  on  the  table,  and  if  any  one  entering  should  chance  to 
read  it  before  coming  in  to  where  she  was,  what  would  become  of 
her  ?  Flight  might  then  be  impossible.  She  must  recover  it  at  any 
risk,  and  even  were  she  seen,  they  would  not  see  it;  and  back  she 
darted  and  snatched  it  up.  As  her  fingers  closed  upon  the  paper 
she  heard  the  door-handle  turn.  To  regain  her  former  shelter  un- 
observed was  now  out  of  the  question;  but  a  massive  oaken  clothes- 
press  stood  near  at  hand  against  the  wall,  and  quick  as  thought  she 
sprang  into  it.  Scarcely  had  she  drawn  too  its  ponderous  doors  upon 
herself,  when  the  room-door  opened  and  Miss  Julia  Liflbrd  (for 
it  was  my  step  and  knock  that  had  alarmed  her)  looked  into  an  empty 
tenantless  room,  and  after  a  hasty  glance  around,  passed  into  the 
vacant  one  beyond.  Then  from  Lucy's  hiding-place  a  hand  and 


BEHIND   THE  AREAS.  87 

arm  was  cautiously  stretched  forth,  and  the  paper  once  more  fast- 
ened to  the  pincushion  on  the  dressing-table;  and  when  Miss  Lifford, 
returning1,  went  up  to  the  press  and  glanced  in,  nothing  but  dresses 
hung  revealed  to  view,  and  it  was  on  a  trembling,  frightened  girl 
that  she  closed  its  heavy  oaken  doors,  and  turned  the  key. 


CHAPTER  II. 

'"Tis  strange  how  many  unimagined  charges 
Can  swarm  upon  a  man,  when  once  tjie  lid 
Of  the  Pandora  box  of  contumely 
Is  open'd  o'er  his  head." 

HAT  must  have  been  Lucy's  sensations  as  she  heard  the 
ominous  click  of  the  lock !  Was  she  to  perish  like  Genevra 
in  the  chest;  or  must  she  call  for  aid,  and  thus  ignomin- 
iously  end  her  well  formed  plans  ?  For  the  moment  she 
felt  more  inclined  to  choose  the  former  fate,  and  horrible  thoughts 
of  how  in  some  far-off  day  her  bones  would  be  found  there,  were 
passing  through  her  mind,  when  an  exclamation  from  without  her 
narrow  prison  broke  the  silence,  and  footsteps  were  heard  hurrying 
from  the  room. 

"  She  has  found  the  paper!  "  and  Lucy  listened  intently  for  the 
alarm  which  she  knew  would  now  be  given.  How  long  it  seemed 
before  the  hum  of  far-off  voices  was  borne  to  her  ears !  and  presently 
horses'  feet  grated  on  the  gravel  without,  and  directions  for  the 
search  came  to'  her  through  the  open  window.  "When  Ingolsby's 
voice  rose  above  the  rest,  firm  and  commanding,  how  her  heart  beat 
and  sank  with  a  still  greater  weight  upon  it  than  before.  'Twas 
long  ere  the  sounds  surging  through  the  house,  now  near,  and  now 
far,  died  away;  and  longer  even  to  this  girl,  shut  up  here  with  but 
two  alternatives  before  her,  of  death  that  she  actually  thought  her- 
self capable  of  enduring,  or  the  home  of  that  man  Sullivan — the 
latter  thought  branching  out  into  dismal  pictures  of  Alva  generously 
marrying  her  and  being  dragged  down  from  his  position  in  society, 
or  proving  false  and  wedding  another  before  her  eyes — longer  to  her 
seemed  the  hours  of  that  long  day  than  to  those  waiting  in  the  draw- 
ing-rooms below,  or  even  to  those  engaged  in  the  search.  And  when 
they  returned  at  last — how  unsuccessful  she  well  knew — she  was 
distracted  by  the  remembrance  that  she  had  left  the  panel  of  her 
ghostly  room  open,  and  then  by  the  fear  that  they  might  come  here 
to  seek  her. 

Once  during  the  day  the  room  door  opened  and  there  came  a 


88  BEHIND  THE  ARRAS. 

whispering  as  between  two  people.  Then  by  degrees  the  voices 
sounded  more  distinctly,  as  if  those  who  spoke  were  gaining  confi- 
dence. One  voice  said: 

"  Such  a  pretty,  pretty  room!  and  really  arranged  with  good  taste. 
I  wonder  if  it  was  her  own  taste  or  Lady  Egerton's." 

"Not  her's  you  maybe  sure,  Mabel,"  spoke  the  other;  "how 
could  one  expect  refinement  from  such  a  source." 

"  But,  mamma,  a  home  like  this  must  have  had  a  refining  influence 
upon  any  nature/' 

"  Such  refinement,  like  gilding  on  brass,  takes  little  to  rub  it  off. 
My  dear  girl,  while  I  think  of  it,  I  want  to  give  you  a  piece  of  ad- 
vice. While  you  are  young,  never  publicly  give  an  opinion  such  as 
you  expressed  a  short  time  ago  before  every  one  down  stairs.  It 
passes  for  unamiability  and  has  no  weight  whatever  with  any  one . 
Wait  till  you  are  my  age  and  such  remarks  will  have  greater  force, 
passing  then  for  a  knowledge  of  the  world — not  for  mere  spiteful- 
ness." 

"  Oh,  it  is  easy  for  you  to  talk  like  Chesterfield,  mamma,  but  at 
my  age  I'm  sure  you  never  practiced  such  precepts." 

"It  would  have  been  better  for  me  if  I  had  practiced  them;  but 
unfortunately,  there  was  no  one  to  teach  me  early  in  youth,  and  I 
only  learned  wisdom  by  sad  experience." 

"  But  now,  mamma,  don't  you  think  what  I  said  was  correct:  that 
she  has  run  away  with  one  of  the  footmen?" 

"  What  you  said,  my  dear,  was  a  mistake  in  a  double  sense;  it 
showed  a  want  of  tact,  and  it  was  improbable.  It  is  far  more  likely 
that  she  has  run  away  for  the  mere  sake  of  being  thought  a  heroine; 
and  courting  publicity  for  such  an  affair  proves  the  possession  of  a 
vulgar  nature.  Had  the  girl  brains,  she  would  have  endeavored  to 
hush  it  up,  and  coaxed  old  Sir  Griffith  into  buying  the  man  off;  but 
instead  she  runs  away,  fondly  imagining  and  believing  that  she  will 
be  brought  back  and  reinstated  in  her  old  position.  Without  a 
thought  for  the  feelings  of  her  friends,  she  enjoys  the  prospect  of 
notoriety;  but  who  ever  yet  'made  a  silk  purse/  you  know,  my 
dear?" 

"  Where  do  you  think  she  has  gone,  mamma?" 

"Not  very  far,  Mabel:  taken  refuge  with  that  Jolliffe  Tufnell, 
perhaps,  of  whose  society  it  appears  she  was  so  fond." 

Oh,  the  pang  of  wounded  pride  that  shot  through  poor  Lucy's 
heart  as  she  listened!  To  be  so  misjudged  by  a  woman  and  by  a 
girl  like  herself!  'Twas  bitter,  bitter,  this  awakening  from  her  first 
delusion,  that  all  the  world  would  put  the  right  construction  on  her 
conduct,  understand  her  motives,  and  appreciate  them;  would  feel 


BEHIND   THE  ARRAS.  89 

with  her,  that  she  could  not  in  honesty  retain  her  position,  and  sym- 
pathize with  her,  that  she  could  not  remain  in  sight  of  her  old  home 
and  become  the  object  of  their  pity.  Her  first  awakening  from  her 
first  delusion,  'twas  the  more  bitter,  for,  though  she  knew  it  not  at 
the  time,  with  this  dream  melted  away  many  others  she  had  cher- 
ished; the  bright  visions  of  perfect  goodwill  and  loving  kindness  in 
the  world,  true  charity  and  human  sympathy.  The  iron  entered  into 
her  soul,  and  formed  the  first  opening  for  the  entrance  of  unbelief 
in  the  unalloyed  goodness  of  human  nature;  but  her  own  nature 
was  too  pure,  though  she  fancied  herself  very  worldly-wise,  to  admit 
more  than  would  serve  as  a  shield  against  evil  in  going  through  life. 
With  a  heart  that  felt  bleeding  inwardly,  she  asked  herself,  if  her 
parentage  was  so  stamped  upon  her  that  none  could  believe  good  of 
her.  "Were  she  to  die  here  she  could  not  call  to  these  people  for 
aid;  never  could  she  return  to  the  position  she  had  left,  to  be 
sneered  at  by  such  as  they.  And  the  two  women  went  out  carelessly 
as  they  had  entered,  little  knowing  the  sting  they  had  left  to  rankle, 
and  never  be  forgotten,  though  it  might  be  forgiven,  in  one  inno- 
cent heart. 

Still  no  one  came  to  seek  for  her.  That  one  move  was  neg- 
lected which  changed  the  future  of  her  game  of  life;  and  she  was 
left  there  to  suffer  undisturbed.  So  the  day  passed.  The  evening 
came  and  darkened  into  night,  and  still  no  one  else  had  come  to 
that  room.  All  had  been  dark  to  her  from  the  first,  and  the  advance 
of  time  not  marked  by  the  changing  light,  but  by  the  striking  of  the 
stable  clock.  After  the  unsuccessful  searchers  had  returned,  six, 
seven,  eight,  nine,  ten,  sounded  from  the  great  time-piece,  and  dur- 
ing those  weary  hours  she  tried  in  vain  to  quiet  the  confusion  in  her 
brain,  and  bring  her  mind  to  bear  upon  some  plan  of  escape.  But  it 
would  not  obey  her  will,  and  kept  wandering  to  all  subjects  but  the 
all-important  one  of  what  she  should  do.  Gradually  it  failed  to 
grasp  even  these,  and  she  thought  of  nothing  but  the  horror  of  her 
situation,  as  she  crouched  down  in  a  sort  of  daze,  watching  and  wait- 
ing for  the  striking  of  the  hours,  and  striving  to  keep  back  the 
growing  sense  of  womanly  weakness  and  fear.  At  last  the  silence 
and  loneliness  became  unendurable.  She  felt  as  though  she  were 
dying  in  that  corner,  and  again  she  shrank  from  death  as  she  had 
done  the  night  before.  Was  every  night  in  her  future  life  to  be 
filled  with  ever-increasing  horrors  ?  Slowly  and  painfully  she  rose 
from  her  cramped  position,  and,  with  a  faint,  wailing  cry,  full  of 
anguish,  yet  too  low  to  be  overheard,  pushed  againt  the  press-door 
with  all  her  strength,  dimly  expecting  and  fearing  a  strong  resis- 
tance. It  was  the  strength  of  despair  that  she  brought  to  bear,  but 


90  BEHIND  THE  ARRAS. 

the  expected  resistance  was  not  met;  the  door  yielded  and  swung 
back  upon  its  hinges,  for,  oh,  blessed  chance!  it  had  only  been 
closed,  not  shut,  and  the  bolt  of  the  lock  had  shot  harmlessly  forth 
on  the  outside,  leaving  a  long,  narrow  opening,  through  which  had 
entered  the  air  that  had  saved  her  from  suffocation.  With  a  dull, 
heavy  sound,  she  fell  to  the  floor,  and  lay  there  unconscious.  The 
sudden  relief  had  been  too  much  for  her  already  overtasked  nerves. 


CHAPTER  III. 

Alone  she  sate — alone!  that  worn-out  word 
So  idly  spoken  and  so  coldly  heard; 
Yet  all  that  poets  sing  and  grief  has  known 
Of  hope  laid  waste,  knells  in  that  word — Alone! 

—The  New  Timon. 

TDNIGHT  was  sounding  from  the  great  clock  in  the  stable 
tower.  The  moon,  riding  high  in  the  heavens,  looked 
down  from  a  cloudless  sky;  and,  bathing  all  nature  with 
'a  flood  of  silvery  light,  cast  one  pale  beam  through  the 
open  window  of  a  dainty  little  boudoir  upon  the  bent  figure  of  a 
young  girl  rising  from  the  floor.  Slowly  the  figure  rose  to  its  feet, 
and  gliding  noiselessly  to  the  door,  stealthily  opened  it,  looked  out 
and  listened.  All  was  dark;  not  a  sound  to  be  heard,  save  the  re- 
verberation of  the  last  stroke  of  the  hour  just  dying  away  on  the 
soft  night  air. 

Presently  a  shadow,  dark  even  in  the  gloom  of  the  corridor, 
groped  its  way  warily  along,  at  times  stumbling  in  the  darkness, 
and  then  pausing  with  strained  attention  to  catch  the  first  and 
faintest  sign  of  alarm.  None  came,  however,  and  the  shadow  moved 
on.  On,  on  it  went,  traversing  the  obscure  corridors,  mounting 
and  descending  the  long,  dark  flights  of  stairs,  and  cautiously  feel- 
ing its  way  in  and  out  among  the  debris  in  the  lumber-room — and 
so,  at  last,  Lucy  reached  her  place  of  refuge  in  safety,  and  closed 
the  secret  panel  behind  her.  A  weird  light  was  in  the  little  room, 
throwing  strange  shadows  about  her;  for  the  moonbeams  struggled 
in  through  the  dusty  skylight  above,  and  in  their  dim  light  Lucy 
might  well  have  passed  for  a  ghost,  as  she  wandered  purposelessly 
about. 

"  I  wonder  why  I  am  so  timid  now,"  she  said  aloud,  with  no  fear 
of  being  overheard  here.  "  Having  gone  so  far  successfully,  why 
should  I  feel  this  fear  and  trembling  ?  Are  not  my  escapes  of  last 
night  and  to-night  signs  that  I  shall  succeed  in  the  end?"  Yet  a 


BEHIND  THE  AREAS.  91 

chill  of  horror  crept  over  her  as  she  thought  of  the  death  from  slow 
suffocation  that  would  have  been  hers  had  the  press  door  but  closed 
more  tightly,  and  her  cries  for  assistance  been  unheard  in  the  gen- 
eral excitement.  "  It  must  be  want  of  food  that  makes  me  so  faint- 
hearted and  undecided.  I  will  not  turn  back  now."  And  out  into 
the  silent  house  she  went  once  more.  'Twas  no  easy  task  to  find 
her  way  in  the  intense  darkness,  but  a  perfect  knowledge  of  every 
turn  and  stairway  assisted  her  in  reaching  the  butler's  pantry  at 
last.  She  opened  back  the  window-shutters,  and  by  the  light  of 
the  now  sinking  moon,  gathered  together  a  supply  of  food  sufficient 
to  keep  her  from  starvation  till  she  found  another  opportunity  for 
a  like  expedition.  Then,  from  its  nail  in  the  corner,  she  took  down 
a  dark-lantern,  and  lighting  it,  pictured  to  herself,  with  that  keen 
sense  of  the  ludicrous  in  her  nature  which  brought  a  smile  to  her 
lips  in  times  even  of  greatest  sorrow  and  pain,  for 

"Some  things  are  of  that  nature  as  to  make 
One's  fancy  chuckle  while  one's  heart  doth  ache," 

the  consternation  of  poor  Watkins  when  he  found  his  larder  so 
mysteriously  devastated,  and  wondered,  with  a  little  compunction 
of  conscience,  on  whom  the  blame  would  fall.  Closing  the  shutters, 
and  letting  a  mere  thread  of  light  stream  from  the  lantern  in  her 
hand,  she  went  back  up  the  broad,  grand  staircase,  an  incongruous 
figure  in  her  brown,  stained  dress,  with  the  basket  of  food  on  her 
arm,  and  munching  a  biscuit  as  she  went;  for  let  romantic  ideas  be 
what  they  will,  heroines,  even  in  the  midst  of  greatest  trouble  and 
distress,  feel  the  pangs  of  hunger  like  other  human  beings,  and 
practical  and  unpoetic  as  it  may  seem,  must  eat  to  sustain  life. 
On  she  went,  up  to  that  spot  which  now  seemed  all  that  was  left  to 
her  of  home;  and  having  deposited  her  basket  upon  the  floor,  came 
out  once  again.  After  many  trips  to  and  from  one  of  the  vacant 
rooms  off  the  long  corridor  in  the  east  wing,  she  succeeded  in  bring- 
ing a  mattress  and  bed-clothing  for  the  old-fashioned  canopied  bed- 
stead in  the  corner. 

Cautiously,  tirelessly,  and  almost  noiselessly,  ever  on  the  alert 
for  a  surprise,  yet  with  firmness  and  determination  she  toiled,  and 
it  was  not  until  the  first  grey  streak  of  dawn  appeared  in  the  east 
that  her  difficult  task  was  completed.  Then  with  a  weary,  weary 
sigh,  she  lay  down  for  a  well  earned  rest;  but  long  she  tossed  to 
and  fro  before  sleep  closed  her  hot  and  aching  eyes.  A  dreamless 
sleep  of  utter  exhaustion,  bodily  and  mental,  it  was,  that  lasted 
through  the  morning  hours,  and  well  into  the  afternoon.  And  the 
search  for  her  went  eagerly  and  fruitlessly  on — the  search  for  this 


92  BEHIND  THE  ARRAS. 

girl  who  reposed  peacefully  and  unconsciously  within  the  very  walls 
from  which  her  sorrowing  friends  went  forth  to  seek  her: 

"So  near,  and  yet  so  far." 

that  distance  could  not  have  erected  a  more  effectual  barrier  be- 
tween them. 

When  at  last  she  awoke  refreshed  from  her  long  sleep,  it  was  with 
renewed  strength  and  energy  she  set  about  making  her  arrangements 
for  her  final  departure. 

For  six  days  longer  she  remained,  going  boldly  about  the  house 
in  the  dark,  still  hours  of  the  night,  sometimes  even  stealing  up  to 
the  library  door  to  listen  to  the  footsteps  of  Sir  Griffith,  as  alone  he 
paced  restlessly  within  (for  Alva  was  gone  up  to  town,  and  Lady 
Egerton  and  I  shut  up  in  our  rooms).  Lucy's  heart  yearned  to- 
ward the  old  man  who  had  been  to  her  all  that  she  had  ever  known 
of  a  father,  and  who  was  suffering  now  for  her  sake.  But  the 
thought  would  come  to  her  of  how  cruelly  misjudged  she  had  been 
by  others,  and  that  he  might  misconstrue  her  motives  as  they  had 
done;  and  she  felt  that  if  she  had  but  been  told  the  truth  from  the 
beginning,  and  had  grown  up  with  a  proper  humility  of  mind,  this 
could  never  have  happened.  And  so,  a  barrier  which  a  mere  trifle 
so  often  raises  between  two  hearts  that  love,  and  would  fain  be 
one,  but  for  the  invisible  bulwark  that  separates  them,  kept  these 
two  apart,  and  she  remained  steady  to  her  purpose.  Once  she  met 
him  face  to  face.  Venturing  forth  one  morning  early  into  the  lum- 
ber room,  she  was  stooping  over  an  old  trunk  in  quest  of  some  article 
which  she  needed,  and  was  so  absorbed  in  the  search  that  approach- 
ing footsteps  were  unheard.  The  door  opened  and  Sir  Griffith  en- 
tered. A  pile  of  trunks  between  them  partially  shielded  her  from 
view,  and  he  walked  across  the  floor,  without  observing  her,  to  an 
old  book-case  in  one  corner,  and  reached  for  a  dust  covered  tome 
on  the  uppermost  shelf.  As  he  did  so,  an  old  glazed  print  on  one 
of  the  walls,  swayed  by  the  draught  from  the  open  door,  broke 
from  its  fastenings,  and  fell  heavily  to  the  floor.  He,  looking 
round  to  see  what  it  was,  did  not  perceive  the  figure  that  started  up 
within  a  yard  or  two  of  where  he  stood.  She,  white  and  trembling, 
stood  for  a  moment  unable  to  move;  then  darted  quickly  away  like 
a  hunted  deer  to  the  open  panel,  and  as  she  turned  in  the  act  of 
closing  it,  beheld  a  face,  white  as  her  own,  with  eyes  and  mouth 
wide  open,  gazing  at  her  in  blank  dismay. 

With  hands  tightly  clasped  and  beating  heart  she  stood  behind 
the  thin  partition,  listening,  as  she  heard  the  old  man  stamping  about, 
muttering  to  himself  and  overturning  everything  that  stood  in  his 


BEHIND   THE  ARRAS.  93 

way,  in  his  frantic  endeavors  to  solve  the  mystery  of  her  sudden  dis- 
appearance. He  came  and  beat  upon  all  the  panels  of  the  wainscot 
with  his  hands,  and  she  felt  sure  that  discovery  was  now  inevitable. 
But  on  he  passed  still  searching,  and  thumping  with  his  knuckles;  and 
again  returned,  and  went  away,  and  came  again;  but  all  his  efforts 
proved  unavailing,  for  presently  the  noise  ceased,  and  he  was  gone. 
Then  her  color  and  courage,  partially  returned,  but  all  that  day  and 
night  she  spent  in  fear  and  trembling  not  daring  to  venture  forth; 
and  afterwards  her  expeditions  were  fewer,  farther  between  and 
made  with  even  more  caution  than  before. 

Nothing  came  of  the  adventure  however,  for  poor  Sir  Griffith  felt 
convinced  that  'twas  naught  of  flesh  and  blood  that  he  had  seen,  but 
a  veritable  ghost.  It  was  no  wonder  that  all  the  household  firmly 
believed  the  house  to  be  haunted. 

Could  any  one  have  looked  down  through  that  dim  skylight,  the 
strange  sight  beneath  would  have  puzzled  them.  There  sat  Lucy 
with  clothes  strewn  about  her  on  every  side,  a  needle  and  thread  in 
her  fingers,  sewing,  sewing,  sewing;  and  the  style  and  appearance 
of  the  garments  she  thus  formed  would  have  been  a  stranger  sight 
still.  But  strangest  of  all  would  have  been  the  figure  that  appeared 
there  one  afternoon  after  the  work  was  completed  and  the  needle 
laid  aside.  Where  was  Lucy?  Gone!  and  in  her  stead  was  the 
queerest,  quaintest  little  old  woman  imaginable.  A  black  dress, 
short,  skimpy  and  untrimmed;  an  enormous  cloak;  a  white  cap,  and 
over  it  a  huge  old-fashioned  bonnet;  a  stick;  a  hobbling  gait;  a 
wrinkled  old  face  under  a  brown  veil,  and  a  pair  of  very,  very 
bright  black  eyes,  made  a  most  enchanting  old  lady  indeed;  and 
when  a  pair  of  rosy  lips  were  folded  inward  and  something  unintel- 
ligible was  mumbled  between  them,  who  could  look  at  her  without 
feelings  of  veneration  and  kindliness  stirring  in  their  bosoms.  But 
when,  a  few  moments  afterwards,  there  stepped  from  out  those  an- 
cient garments  a  slight  girlish  figure  with  a  halo  of  shining  hair 
about  the  still  wrinkled  face,  these  feelings  would  doubtless  change 
to  admiration  for  the  genius  that  had  formed  from  the  scanty  means 
within  her  reach  so  complete  and  baffling  a  disguise. 


94:  BEHIND   THE  ARRAS. 


CHAPTER   IV. 

Vanished  like  dew  drops  from  the  spray 

Are  moments  which  in  beauty  flew; 
I  cast  life's  brightest  pearl  away, 

And,  false  one,  breathe  rny  last  adieu! 

—  G.  W.  Clark. 

HE  time  had  come  when  Lucy  must  go.  Seven  long  and 
weary  days  had  gone  by,  the  search  must  now  have  been 
given  up,  she  thought,  and  everything  was  in  readiness  for 
her  flight.  Now  or  never  must  the  yearning,  lingering  fond- 
ness for  all  that  was  familiar  and  dear  to  her  be  crushed  from  her 
heart — every  sacred  tie  which  bound  her  affections  to  the  dear  old 
place  be  severed — perhaps  forever.  It  was  pain,  intense  pain,  to 
part  even  with  the  lifeless  objects  about  her;  from  the  portrait  of 
Guy  Egerton,  which  seemed  to  her  excited  fancy  to  plead  with  be- 
seeching eyes  for  her  to  remain;  from  the  old  mirror  that  appeared 
to  give  forth  a  more  kindly  and  less  distorted  reflection  of  her  own 
white  face,  and  from  the  stiff-backed  chair  that  looked  comfortable 
and  easy  for  the  first  time.  The  entire  room  all  at  once  assumed  a 
more  enticing  appearance  in  her  eyes.  And  if  it  was  pain  to  part 
from  these,  and  to  feel  that  old  associations  could  never  be  renewed, 
how  much  more  painful  the  thought  of  leaving  those  she  loved  with- 
out a  word,  without  a  glance  of  kind  farewell!  With  a  cry  of  an- 
guish, and  the  first  tears  she  had  shed  through  all  these  bitter  days, 
streaming  from  her  eyes,  she  drew  paper  before  her  and  poured  out 
the  agony  of  her  soul  in  writing.  Long  she  lingered  over  the  pages 
that  told  so  much  of  her  secret,  and  had  she  obeyed  the  promptings 
of  her  heart,  to  him  would  they  have  been  addressed;  but  in  the 
hope  that  he  might  think  her  dead,  she  refrained.  At  last  the  task 
was  done,  and  with  bowed  head  on  her  folded  arms,  she  lay  and 
sobbed  away  the  hours.  And  when  the  shadows  of  night  had  dark- 
ened the  room,  and  the  calm  of  exhausted  nature  hushed  the  pas- 
sionate sobs,  leaving  naught  but  an  occasional  quiver  to  give  sign  of 
life  to  the  quiet  figure  that  had  lain  there  so  long,  she  raised  her 
head  and  stretching  forth  her  hand  in  the  darkness  for  the  letter, 
she  rose  quickly,  lighted  her  lantern  and  passed  from  the  room. 
Her  purpose  was  to  leave  the  letter  in  some  spot  where  it  was  most 
certain  to  be  discovered — yet  not  immediately — by  her  alone  to 
whom  its  contents  were  addressed.  To  accomplish  this,  undetected, 
was  a  most  hazardous  step,  she  knew;  but  her  life  of  late  had  been 
but  a  succession  of  risks  and  she  had  encountered  them  all  so  vic- 
toriously, that  she  did  not  hesitate  now  that  she  was  required  to 


BEHIND   THE  AREAS.  95 

subject  herself  to  one  more.  Besides,  there  was  a  sort  of  excitement 
about  these  chances  of  detection  which  she  took  that  seemed  to 
buoy  her  up,  and  which  she  had  grown  to  regard  as  almost  necessary 
to  her  existence. 

Pausing  at  one  of  the  bedroom  doors  near  the  head  of  the  grand 
staircase,  she  knocked  sharply,  listening  intently  for  a  response, 
and  prepared  upon  the  faintest  sound  from  within  to  dart  away 
under  cover  of  the  darkness.  No  sound  came  to  her  from  the  room, 
and  then  she  knocked  again,  but  with  the  same  result.  Yet  a  third 
time  did  she  repeat  her  summons  without  a  reply,  before  she  felt  sat- 
isfied it  was  safe  to  venture  in.  Opening  the  door  softly,  she  cau- 
tiously looked  in,  and,  sweeping  the  room  with  a  stream  of  light 
from  her  lantern,  saw  no  one.  Then  she  entered  and  glanced  around 
for  some  place  to  put  her  letter.  Upon  a  small  table  beside  an 
escritoire  lay  an  open  diary  and  between  its  leaves  she  inserted  it. 

"She  will  find  it  here/'  she  said  to  herself,  "the  first  time  she 
writes,  and  no  one  else  will  be  likely  to  open  the  book/'  That  it  was 
not  till  months  afterwards  it  chanced  to  come  to  light  the  reader  al- 
ready knows. 

As  Lucy  turned  to  leave  the  room  she  heard  voices  on  the  stair- 
case. Hurriedly  drawing  the  shade  across  the  lens  of  her  lantern 
she  stood  motionless,  but  listening  with  a  beating  heart.  It  was 
Sir  Griffith's  voice  she  heard  and  then  an  answer  came  from  Ingols- 
by.  "  No  danger  of  their  coming  here,"  she  thought,  and  stealing 
to  the  door  she  closed  it  gently,  leaving  a  slender  chink  through 
which  she  peeped  out  at  the  two  figures  coming  slowly  up  the  stairs. 
Arm  in  arm  they  came,  and  paced  along  the  hall  to  and  fro,  the  older 
man  erect  and  firm  in  step,  the  younger  with  bowed  head  and  eyes 
never  raised  from  the  carpet. 

"  True — true;"  were  the  first  intelligible  words  from  Sir  Griffith; 
"time  passes  and  we  find  her  not;  but  from  that  very  fact  I  gather 
most  hope.  If  she  be  alive  we  cannot  but  find  her  eventually,  and 
if  she  had  destroyed  herself,  long  before  this  some  tangible  proof 
would  have  been  discovered  to  confirm  the  suspicion.  So  you  see 
that  when  I  bid  you  hope,  it  is  not  without  reason; "  and  they  passed 
out  of  sight  and  hearing. 

A  wild  desire  to  rush  out,  and  falling  in  their  arms,  ask  that  this 
load  of  care  might  be  taken  from  her,  as  her  presence  would  take  it 
from  them,  came  to  the  listening  girl  with  almost  irresistible  force. 
The  two  had  turned  in  their  walk  and  as  they  passed  back  again 
Sir  Griffith  was  saying: 

"  Did  right  in  telling  me  ?  Of  course  you  did  right;  and  honestly, 
my  dear  boy,  you  have  always  seemed  a  true  son  to  me;  and  now 


96  BEHIND   THE  A  ERAS. 

more  than  ever  do  I  feel  the  need  of  one.  This  is  a  sore  trial  at  my 
time  of  life,  for  I  love  the  girl  dearly,  and  cannot  bear  to  think  that 
she  is  suffering.  It  makes  me  absolutely  furious  that  people  should 
have  it  in  their  power  to  gossip  about  her." 

As  they  passed  on,  tears  of  something  very  like  remorse  streamed 
from  Lucy's  eyes,  and  faster  they  flowed  and  more  and  more  she 
wavered  in  her  purpose,  as  she  caught  his  slowly-uttered  words. 

"  The  loss  of  my  son  was,  until  now,  the  one  great  sorrow  of  my 
life,  and  it  almost  crushed  me.  People  call  me  eccentric,  but  I  can 
say  to  you,  my  boy,  what  I  have  never  before  admitted  to  human 
being;  my  odd  ways,  like  many  anothers,  have  been  but  a  mask  put 
on  to  hide  a  sorrow  which  it  would  be  unmanly  to  show." 

The  door  moved  on  its  hinges,  and  had  their  eyes  turned  that 
way  as  they  went  slowly  by,  they  would  have  seen  a  dim  figure 
hesitating  in  the  doorway,  checked  in  its  mad  impulse  to  fall  at 
their  feet  by  the  words  that  now  fell  from  Alva's  lips. 

"I  could  not  marry  Lucy  now,"  he  said.  "Under  existing  cir- 
cumstances, considering  her  position  and  mine,  it  would  be  out  of 
the  question — not  to  be  thought  of  for  an  instant/' 

"  In  yourselves,  you  are  equals,  and  love  should  remove  all  such 
obstacles,"  argued  Sir  Griffith. 

"  Not  in  these  days,"  Ingolsby  answered,  with  a  sneer  in  his  voice. 
"  What  is  love  weighed  in  the  balance  with  wealth  and  pedigree, 
and  spotless  name?  A  chimera!  the  delusion  of  some  poor,  half- 
starved  wretch  in  a  garret!" 

"Of  course,  of  course,"  assented  Sir  Griffith.  "I  understand 
that  perfectly;  I  don't  blame  you  for  the  feeling.  This  affair  has 
become  so  deucedly  public  that  it  will  take  at  least  an  earl's  coronet 
to  make  it  be  forgotten.  To  tell  you  the  truth,  my  heart  begins  to 
harden  toward  the  girl  for  all  the  unnecessary  pain  she  has  given 
those  to  whom  she  owes  so  much.  She's  an  ungrateful  hussy!  To 
think  that  I  have  reared  and  educated  anottier  man's  child  for  this ! 
But  go  you  to  your  bed  now,  and  dream  of  happiness,  if  you  cannot 
feel  it.  Good-night!" 

"  Good-night,  sir."  And  then  they  separated  and  went  off  to 
their  rooms,  leaving  a  second  arrow  to  rankle  in  the  girl's  soul. 

Ah!  quiver  with  pain,  poor  heart;  shrink  in  agony,  throb  with 
each  new  pang,  and  bleed  with  every  stab!  Wounds  from  those  we 
love  are  not  so  few  but  each  must  have  his  share;  and  if  to  thee 
comes  more  than  is  thy  portion,  remember  this:  It  is  a  trial  of  thy 
goodness.  Hardened  wilt  thou  be  into  adamant;  deadened  to  pain 
thyself,  and  to  pain  in  others;  or  else,  the  better  alternative,  soft- 
ened in  like  proportion,  alive  to  sorrow,  pain,  and  misery  in  other 


BEHIND  THE  ARRAS.  97 

hearts,  then  will  all  poisoned  arrows  lose  the  power  to  do  thee 
harm.  Choose  the  better,  nobler  lot,  poor  heart,  and  soften,  soften 
as  thy  wounds  increase. 

An  instant  Lucy  lingered  on  the  threshhold,  and  then,  hearing 
another  step  upon  the  stairs,  glided  off  into  the  friendly,  sheltering 
darkness  of  the  corridor — the  gloom  that  told  no  tales  to  her  who 
followed  after. 

All  hope  of  happiness  seemingly  over  for  her  in  this  world,  her 
resolve,  strengthened  with  each  passing  day  and  by  every  chance 
word,  now  irrevocably  fixed,  she  entered  the  tapestried  room  for  the 
last  time.  There  was  no  sleep  for  her  that  night,  neither  was  there 
any  tumult  in  her  mind.  Her  senses  happily  deadened  by  this  last, 
heaviest  blow  of  all — those  cold,  cruel  words  of  Alva's  that  had 
sounded  as  the  knell  of  dying  hope — she  lay  upon  the  bed,  motion- 
less, numb  in  mind  and  body,  and  utterly  incapable  of  thought, 

yet, 

"  Over  all  things  brooding  slept 
The  quiet  sense  of  something  lost." 

The  first  faint  light  of  early  dawn  was  the  signal  for  renewed 
working  of  her  brain.  "Wearily  she  arose,  and  casting  aside  her  own 
attire,  dressed  herself  by  the  light  of  the  lantern  in  the  costume 
that  had  cost  her  so  much  time  and  labor  to  contrive.  Deadening 
her  complexion  with  a  dye  she  had  found  in  one  of  the  old  trunks, 
she  make  a  few  dark  lines  upon  the  forehead,  about  the  eyes 
and  mouth,  and  a  dark  spot  upon  each  cheek;  but  still  fearing  the 
strong  light  of  day,  she  threw  an  old-fashioned  figured  lace  veil 
over  her  bonnet,  so  that  no  eye  could  detect  aught  beneath  but 
what  appeared  to  be  the  wrinkles  of  veritable  old  age.  She  had 
fifty  pounds  in  notes,  her  birthday  gift  from  Sir  Griffith.  For  the 
future  her  money  was  to  be  of  her  own  making,  but  this  she  must 
take  to  use  until  such  time  as  she  could  earn  enough  to  replace  it, 
as,  indeed,  she  felt  she  would  like  to  do  everything  that  had  been 
lavished  upon  her.  This  sum,  with  a  few  articles  of  clothing  she 
placed  in  the  black  leather  traveling  bag.  Her  mind  was  in  a  sad 
state  of  bitterness  toward  all  mankind,  poor  girl,  as  she  turned  to 
go.  It  was  not  with  the  agony  she  had  expected  to  feel,  but  with 
scarcely  a  pang  that  she  found  herself  now  about  to  leave  this  once 
happy  home.  Her  last  illusion  had  been  dispelled;  and  leaving 
a  heap  of  water-stained  brown  merino  lying  upon  the  floor — the  last 
discarded  relic  of  the  old  life — she  turned  coldly  away,  even  from  the 
portrait  of  the  boy  she  so  long  had  pitied,  and  went  forth  alone 
out  into  the  wide,  wide  world. 
7 


98  BEHIND   THE  ARRAS. 


CHAPTER    V. 

The  frighted  chase  leaves  her  late  abodes, 
O'er  plains  remote  she  stretches  far  away — 
Ah!  never  to  return! 

—The  Chase. 

IGHT  o'clock  of  a  bleak,  gray  morning,  and  the  early  London 
express,  speeding  noisily  on  its  way  up  to  the  great  me- 
tropolis, carried  passengers,  cold,  gloomy  and  irritable  from 
the  effects  of  the  weather;  their  minds  destitute  of  gratitude 
for  the  blessings  of  steam,  that  saved  them  from  greater  hardship 
and  inconvenience  than  an  hour  or  two  of  a  rapid,  bustling  trip  on 
comfortably-cushioned  seats. 

Growl  as  ye  may,  ye  British  public,  at  what  you  are  pleased  to 
call  the  discomforts  of  your  railway  system;  at  the  long  stoppages 
and  crawling  pace  of  the  accommodation  and  slow  mail,  on  the  one 
hand,  and  the  lightning  rattle,  and  no-such-thing-as-reading-in-it 
whiz  of  the  express  on  the  other;  at  (if  you  don't  smoke)  the  vile 
odor  of  tobacco  that  always  hangs  about  the  cushions,  or,  (if  you 
do)  the  utter  impossibility  of  enjoying  a  quiet  weed  all  to  yourself, 
without  having  some  grim-visaged  female  get  into  your  compart- 
ment, of  all  others,  at  the  next  station;  at  the  rudeness  and  "  dress- 
ed in  a  little  brief  authority"  swagger  of  the  guards;  at  the  squaling 
babies  thrust  in  upon  you  just  as  you  have  closed  your  eyes  for  a 
nap;  at  the  non-adoption  (as  yet)  of  the  continental  and  trans-atlan- 
tic  method  of  checking  your  luggage,  and  the  consequent  chances 
of  some  one  else  walking  off  with  your  trunk  at  some  station  where 
you  don't  remember  to  look  out;  at  the  horrors  of  solitary  confine- 
ment in  a  box,  or  imprisoned  companionship  with  a  beetle-browed 
villian  of  chloroforming  propensities;  yet  who  is  there  among  you 
who  would  willingly  go  back  to  the  suffocation,  and  cramp,  and 
horn-tooting  of  the  old  coaching  days  in  exchange  ?  Not  one  among 
you  if  it  came  to  the  point  of  sacrificing  your  present  unacknowl- 
edged comforts. 

This  early  train  carried  away  from  the  town  of  Bratton  a  woman, 
aged  and  quaint  in  appearance.  Not  many  hours  before  had  this 
same  person  passed  down  a  narrow  flight  of  steps  at  Bratton  Hall 
to  the  grounds  beneath,  and  after  a  rapid  flight  across  the  lawn  and 
a  tedious  trudge  in  a  hobbling  gait  through  the  fields,  where  the 
harvesters  were  gathering  to  their  labor,  and  from  whom  many  a 
hallo  and  laughing  inquiry  as  to  "  granny's"  health  and  busi- 
ness greeted  her  ears  unheeded,  reached  a  turnstile  set  in  the  wall 
half  a  mile  from  the  lodge  gates,  and  passing  out,  gained  the  high 


BEHIND   THE  ARRAS.  99 

road.  On  down  the  dusty  road  she  kept,  not  stopping  to  rest  until 
she  reached  the  "Alnwick,"  a  small  inn  in  the  town  near  the  railway 
station.  Here  a  story  had  to  be  coined  for  the  landlady  about  a 
granddaughter  lying  dangerously  ill  in  a  distant  town,  and  of  how 
her  son  had  driven  her  over  from  the  neighboring  village  of  Whitby, 
and  left  her  at  the  station,  as  he  was  obliged  to  get  back  to  his  work; 
and  she,  finding  she  was  nearly  an  hour  too  soon,  as  the  London  ex- 
press was  n't  due  till  7: 49  (so  the  station-master  told  her),  had  wan- 
dered over  here  to  "  get  summat  to  eat/'  as  she  was  very  hungry, 
having  only  taken  a  bite  before  she  left  home.  Such  deception  was 
new  to  Lucy,  and  a  sore  trial  to  her  frank  and  truthful  nature  which 
rebelled  against  using  it  even  though  absolutely  necessary.  But  her 
tears  were  unfeigned,  and  though  their  genuineness  somewhat  en- 
dangered the  condition  of  her  disguised  face,  by  their  aid  she  suc- 
ceeded in  gaining  the  sympathy  of  the  little  household.  So  full, 
indeed,  of  pity  and  compassion  for  the  "poor  old  soul"  was  the 
landlady  that  she  would  not  leave  her  to  eat  her  breakfast  in  soli- 
tude, and  a  sad  quandary  was  the  "  poor  old  soul "  in,  not  daring  to 
expose  her  uncovered  face  to  the  other's  keen  eyes  in  the  morning 
light.  Perplexed  and  annoyed  at  the  dilemma  in  which  she  found 
herself  placed  by  the  good  woman's  mistaken  kindness,  a  happy 
thought  came  to  her  rescue,  and  in  the  high  shrill  voice  she  had  as- 
sumed with  her  disguise,  she  cried  out  as  she  put  her  hand  to  her 
face: 

"Ah,  my  poor  old  eyes!  my  poor  old  eyes!  little  sleep  ha'  they  known 
o'late,  an3  now  they  be  revengin'  o'  themsels,  so  they  be,  wi'smartin' 
pains  an'  waterin'.  Just  obleege  me,  good  friend,  and  draw  the  cur- 
tain across  yon  window  an'  shut  out  the  glarin'  light.  More,  more, 
shut  it  out  entirely;  there,  that'll  do  nicely,  thank  ye; "  and  then  she 
raised  her  veil,  and  while  the  landladj^'s  eyes  blinked  and  strained  in 
the  unaccustomed  gloom,  ate  and  finished  her  meal  long  before  the 
distant  whistle  of  the  train  announced  its  near  approach. 

The  usual  din  and  confusion  that  succeeds  the  stoppage,  and  con- 
tinues during  the  brief  stay  of  an  express,  surrounded  Lucy  on  her 
arrival  at  the  station;  the  babel  of  tongues,  the  rushing  of  feet,  the 
crying  of  babies,  the  hissing  and  panting  of  the  impatient  engine, 
the  trundling  of  the  luggage-barrows,  the  multitudinous  "  How  d'ye 
do's?"  of  the  comers,  and  "Good  byes"  of  the  goers,  heartfelt  and 
heartless,  spoken  and  shouted;  the  howls  of  the  struggling  dogs 
being  thrust  into  their  long,  narrow  cells  beneath  the  seats,  and  the 
barking  and  yelping  of  the  others  just  let  loose,  the  rush  for  tickets 
and  scramble  for  window  seats,  the  muttered  growls  at  the  "en- 
gaged" compartments  with  one  occupant,  the  groans  of  the  "  baccy  " 


100  BEHIND   THE  AREAS. 

chaps  at  the  absence  of  a  smoking-carriage,  the  dragging  and  grat- 
ing and  slamming  of  trunks,  portmanteaux  and  boxes,  the  warning 
cries  from  the  carriage  windows  to  the  old  party  at  the  book-stall,  or 
the  young  one  in  the  refreshment-room,  the  unchecked  insolence  of 
the  flymen  after  unsuccessful  extortion,  the  jostling,  crowding, 
elbowing  and  shoving,  and  over  and  about  all  that  peculiar  odor  of 
coal,  smoke,  steam  and  hot  oil,  without  which  a  railway  station 
would  not  be  a  railway  station,  nor  a  train  a  train.  In  the  midst 
of  the  noise  and  tumult  Lucy  bought  her  ticket,  and  found  a  seat  in 
a  second-class  carriage,  unassisted.  The  bell  for  starting  rang,  the 
guard  shouted: 

"Any  more  going  on?"  the  engine  shrieked,  and,  with  a  tug,  the 
train  went  whizzing  on  its  way  again. 

And  as  it  sped  on  through  the  green  hedge  rows  and  yellow 
fields  of  swaying  grain,  dashed  over  bridges,  whisked  under  road- 
ways, shrieked  into  tunnels  and  clattered  past  intermediate  stations, 
Lucy  sat  in  her  corner  by  the  window,  looking  out  at  the  laborers 
busy  in  the  fields,  and  the  buxom  lasses  and  ruddy-faced  mothers, 
who  stood  in  the  cottage  doorways,  watching  the  train  as  it  whirled 
swiftly  by;  and  a  ray  of  sunlight  seemed  to  penetrate  the  cloud  that 
enveloped  her,  as  she  thought  how  happy  they  appeared  in  their  hum- 
ble sphere;  how  much  happier,  indeed,  than  those  in  the  one  she  was 
leaving.  But — and  the  cloud  grew  dense  once  more — what  tastes  or 
feelings  could  she,  brought  up  in  luxury  and  refinement,  have  in 
common  with  these  people  who  had  no  thought  beyond  their  simple 
cottage  homes  ?  Yet  they  had  a  home  and  she  had  none. 

Home !  of  which  so  much  has  been  said  and  sung,  but  which  no 
language  can  define  as  it  is  pictured  to  our  mind  at  the  mention  of 
the  one  little  word  that  stirs  all  the  deepest  and  purest  pulses  of  our 
being;  alas!  never  more  was  there  to  be  a  home  for  her  in  this 
world,  unless  she  made  one  for  herself  by  the  labor  and  toil  of  her 
own  hands. 

The  sound  of  voices  aroused  her  from  her  reverie,  as  two  men, 
whom  she  had  not  before  noticed  at  the  other  end  of  the  compart- 
ment, got  up  and  took  their  seats  opposite  to  her.  Small  farmers 
they  looked,  in  holiday  attire. 

After  the  first  rude  stare  at  the  shabby  old  woman,  they  paid  little 
heed  to  her,  but  went  on  with  their  talk  about  crops  and  cattle  and 
different  breeds  of  sheep;  and  the  monotonous  hum  of  their  voices  was 
gradually  soothing  her  to  sleep,  when  a  name  spoken  by  one  of  them 
awakened  her  with  a  start.  With  beating  heart  and  strained  atten- 
tion she  listened  to  what  followed  the  mention  of  "Sir  Griffith 
Egerton." 


BEHIND   THE  ARRAS.  101 

"  Wot  a  fuss  it  ha'  excoited,  to  be  sure.  Aw  th'  warlt  knoas  o'it 
an  tawks  o'it;  an'  yo'd  be  sorprois'd  at  aw  the  stories  they  tell,  fo' 
be  me  troath,  lad,  they  be  o'  aw  sorts  an'  seizes." 

"With  a  grandiloquent  air,  the  other  man  answered: 

"  Theaw'd  nah  foind  me  makin'  a  toirne  abou'  noa  chilt  o'moine. 
Hoo  moight'  a'  dun  what  she  loike  an'  she  didna  disgrace  hoo  fey- 
ther.  An  ey  heert  say  t'  lass  wa'  noa  chilt  o'  he  noather." 

"Ay;  sot' say." 

"Boh  wheer  dun  yoa  think  she  be  goane  to?"  asked  the  second 
speaker. 

"Well,  soame  say  she  ha'  made  awoay  wi'  hursel,  an'  soame  t'  she 
be  goane  wi'  a  young  chop;  boh  moast  o'  aw'  say,  an'  me  wi'  'urn, 
beloike  she  be  a  hoidin'  i'  th'  toawn  o'  Lonnon.  An' t'  p'leece  be  on 
t'  loak  owt  fo'  hur  aw'  owr  Lonnon.  Be  t'  mess,  ey  'ope  t'  win  catch 
t'  lass;  an'  t'be  a  goade  whoapin'  ey'd  gi'  hoo  wi'  hoo  freaks  an' 
foncies.  Whoy,  a  protty  'somple  hoo  be  t'  onest  fooks  gurls  t'  run 
auf  an'  scare  'm  ef  aw  things  dunna  plees  'm  a'  whoam." 

"Eh  woander  'ow  hoo  win  git  hoo  livin',  Zacheriah,  aw'  bey 
hersel?" 

"  Eigh,  Jem,  she  be  able  t'  moind  hursel,  fo'  ey  ha'  heert  as  how 
hoo  tuk  trunks  an'  boxes  o'  siller  an'  joawls  an'  money  an'  aw  t' 
foine  duds  o'  me  lady  wi'  hur." 

"  Yo  dunna  sa'  soa!  Be  th'  hokey,  lad,  ey  ha'  got  t'  vary  roate  oj 
t'aw,  noaw!"  slapping  his  companion's  knee  and  gesticulating  glee- 
fully into  his  face.  "  T'owd  mon  ha'  got  in  t'  trouble  an'  debt,  an 
ha'  sent  hoo  t'  furren  parts  wi'  aw  he  cud  scrape  an'  gother,  an' 
protty  soan  t'  Hall  win  be  shut,  an'  they  win  aw  goa  t'  furren  parts 
an'  ha'  ease  an'  cumfort  fo'  t'  rest  o'  t'  loives  while  t'  croditers  may 
whostle  f o'  't  pay.  Eigh — eigh,  mon  ?  " 

"Ey  shud  na  wonder,  Jem,  boh  theaw'd  guest  it.  'Twould  be 
boh  honest  noaw  t'  gi  information  toa  t'  croditers,  an'  mayhap,  Jem, 
t'  moight  gin  us  a  trifle  fo  our  troable,  eh,  lad?  " 

"  Hist!  we  be  owerheert,  Zacheriah,"  and  they  looked  suspiciously 
at  the  old  woman  who  was  leaning  forward,  listening  eagerly  to 
their  conversation. 

"Whot  ye  be  doain',  oald  woaman  ?  "  demanded  one  of  them 
roughly;  "  lossnin'  toa  ower  tawk,  eh?  Lossners  nay  hear  goad 
o'  thersels,  soame  toimes." 

Without  answer  she  shrank  quickly  back  into  her  corner,  thinking 
how  apt  was  the  proverb  the  man  had  so  unwittingly  quoted,  and 
accusing  herself,  poor  thing,  of  being  the  cause  of  all  this  indignity 
to  Sir  Griffith.  She  felt  no  resentment  at  what  they  had  said  of  her- 
self, for  had  she  not  overheard  from  the  lips  of  those  who  knew  her 


102  BEHIND  THE  ARRAS. 

far  more  bitter  words  than  any  they  had  spoken,  and  why  should 
these  rough,  uncultivated  men  understand  her  motives  better,  and 
interpret  them  more  charitably,  than  those  above  them  in  refinement 
of  feeling  ?  Yet,  as  they  continued  their  talk,  in  cautious  whispers 
now,  she  felt  hurt — grieved — that  all  classes — all  people  should  be 
against  her  in  their  judgments.  She  might  be  called  strong-willed 
— as  no  doubt  she  was,  for  it  would  take  many  an  obstacle  well  nigh 
insurmountable  to  turn  her  from  her  purpose — but  for  all  that,  her 
heart  yearned  for  one  kindred  soul  to  sympathize  with  her,  one  hand 
to  help,  one  arm  to  lean  upon. 

"Alone,  alone,  all,  all  alone," 

She  must  fight  the  battle  of  life,  with  none  to  love  and  cherish  her, 
none  to  love  and  live  for  in  return .  And  what  value  has  life  with 
no  one  to  live  for  but  oneself  ?  It  is  scarcely  life — it  is  mere  exist- 
ence. Nor  can  it  be  a  fit  preparation  for  the  world  to  come. 

To  mortals  is  given  the  capacity  for  loving,  the  desire  for  com- 
panionship, and  the  faculty  to  enter  into  one  another's  joys  and  sor- 
rows, hopes  and  fears.  But  solitude  and  a  selfish  life  in  oneself 
must  needs  lessen  the  power  of  love  and  charity  and  human  kind- 
ness, and  deaden  all  the  most  sublime  emotions  of  the  heart,  leav- 
ing one  even  more  imperfect— more  unfitted  for  the  life  hereafter. 
It  is  surely  meant  for  none  to  live  always  for  themselves  alone;  some 
one  they  must  find  to  take  an  important  place  in  their  minds,  and 
sooner  or  later,  though  she  knew  it  not,  could  not  have  believed  it 
at  the  time,  some  one  must  be  found  to  be  to  Lucy  a  subject  of  in- 
terest and  thought. 

But  a  new  difficulty  had  arisen  in  her  path;  detectives  were  011 
the  watch  for  her  in  London,  the  men  had  said.  It  might  not  be 
true — perhaps  as  untrue  as  the  rest  of  their  story;  yet  it  was  possi- 
ble, she  thought,  that  some  steps  of  the  kind  might  have  been  taken 
by  Sir  Griffith;  London,  then,  was  no  place  for  her.  But  it  was  too 
late  to  turn  back,  or  get  out  at  a  by-station,  for  the  last  way  stop- 
page had  been  made  a  half  hour  ago,  and  the  train  was  already  en- 
tering the  suburbs  of  the  great  city.  She  must  go  on;  but  she 
would  follow  out  the  idea  that  had  first  come  to  her  mind  when  she 
had  determined  on  flight:  she  would  cross  the  channel  at  once  and 
go  to  some  place  on  the  continent  where  as  a  stranger  none  would 
question  her,  none  pity  her,  and  where,  fewer  being  on  the  roll  of 
necessity  than  in  the  monster  London,  a  subsistence  might  be  more 
easily  obtained. 

At  last  the  train  rolled  in  under  cover  at  Euston  Square,  and 
stopped  with  a  sudden  jolt,  and  the  two  farmers  left  the  carriage, 


BEHIND   THE  AREAS.  103 

and  hurried  away— to  seek  out  Sir  Griffith's  imaginary  creditors, 
no  doubt,  and  impart  to  them  their  valuable  information.  Lucy 
stepped  boldly  out  upon  the  broad  platform,  and  though  she  knew 
not  but  that  each  man  who  looked  at  her  might  be  an  emissary 
from  Scotland-yard,  yet  she  felt  safe  in  the  disguise  which  had  BO 
successfully  passed  through  the  ordeal  at  the  "  Alnwick,"  and  going 
out  with  the  crowd,  took  the  first  cab  that  offered  itself,  and  drove 
across  the  city  to  Charing  Cross,  fully  resolved  to  go  on  to  Folkes- 
tone, and  cross  to  Boulogne  without  delay.  But,  as  others  have 
experienced  before  her,  events  do  not  always  coincide  with  our 
designs,  and  she  found  that  the  Tidal  Train  was  not  to  start  for  two 
hours.  Two  long,  weary  hours  to  wait!  Slowly  and  tediously  the 
time  crept  by,  while  trains  arrived  and  departed,  and  the  bustle 
and  noise  continued,  now  increasing,  now  subsiding,  and  through- 
out it  all,  in  a  dark  corner  of  the  ladies'  waiting-room,  passive  and 
motionless,  her  mind  a  chaos  of  contending  thoughts,  sat  the  shab- 
bily dressed  old  woman.  People  came  in  and  looked  at  her  cur- 
iously, and  some  even  questioned  her,  but  to  all  she  paid  no  heed, 
gave  no  answer,  for  it  was  the  easiest  way  to  avoid  conversation. 
At  length  people  with  foreign  labels  on  their  luggage  began  to 
swarm  in,  and,  for  the  dozenth  time  since  she  sat  there,  the  din  of 
departure  grew  loud  again;  the  porters  ran  round  more  briskly  with 
their  trucks;  the  guard  came  out  and  swaggered  up  and  down  the 
platform;  the  passengers  clustered  around  the  carriage  doors,  and 
the  engine  backed  up  and  hooked  on.  Then  the  old  woman,  with 
her  ticket  clasped  tightly  in  her  hand,  hobbled  across  the  platform 
to  an  empty  compartment,  and  got  in.  Hardly  was  she  seated 
when  she  heard  the  clink  of  money,  and  a  voice  outside  say: 

"Remember,  guard,  no  one  else  in  here." 

(t  Yery  good,  sir." 

Then  a  dark  body  scrambled  in,  and  the  guard  slammed  the  door 
to,  and  locked  it  as  the  train  began  to  move.  And  as  the  spasmodic 
kugh!  kugh  !  kugh!  of  the  engine  grew  of  shorter  interval,  and  the 
train  emerged  from  the  long  dark  terminus  into  the  light  of  day, 
Lucy  looked  up,  and,  seated  before  her,  beheld — Jolliffe  Tufnell. 


104  BEHIND   THE  ARRAS. 


CHAPTER  VI. 

'Tis  with  our  judgments  as  our  watches,  none 
Go  just  alike,  yet  each  believes  his  own. 

—  Essay  on  Criticism:  Part  I. 

ES,  there  lie  sat,  in  a  rough  corduroy  shooting- jacket  and 
leather  leggings,  his  hands  on  his  knees,  his  Glengarry  cap 
off,  beside  him  on  the  seat,  and  his  abundant  crop  of  red  hair 
exposed  to  view.  Not  golden,  not  auburn,  but  veritable  red 
it  was,  so  vivid  in  color  as  to  give  one  the  impression  that  his  florid 
complexion  was  the  result  of  its  bright  reflection.  He  was  short,  he 
was  awkward;  his  hands  and  feet  seemed  too  large  to  be  disposed  of 
comfortably,  his  ears  were  obstinately  expansive;  his  eyes — ah !  there 
was  his  one  redeeming  feature — 

"Blue,  darkly,  deeply,  beautifully  blue," 

large  and  bright,  in  expression,  sympathetic  and  benignant.  But 
it  was  seldom  that  one  could  get  a  chance  to  look  into  their  marvel- 
ous depths,  for,  as  if  ashamed  of  this  one  oasis  of  beauty  in  the 
desert  of  his  ugliness,  they  were  always  covered  by  spectacles. 
They  were  not  weak,  as  their  clearness  showed  even  through  the 
glasses;  they  were  not  short-sighted  according  to  his  own  confes- 
sion, and  he  was  certainly  not  old  enough  to  require  an  optical 
assistant.  And  so,  people  wondered,  and  some  even  ventured  to 
inquire,  what  induced  him  to  assume  this  badge  of  age.  His  invar- 
iable answer  was,  that  he  thought  them  in  keeping  with  his  per- 
sonal appearance.  But  this  concealment  of  nature's  gift  was  cer- 
tainly not  in  keeping  with  his  character,  for  one  more  frank;  and 
more  willing  to  disclose  every  thought  and  feeling,  were  they  com- 
plimentary or  derogatory  to  the  person  whom  he  might  be  addressing, 
it  would  be  difficult  to  find. 

The  shipping  in  the  Thames  had  scarce  passed  out  of  view,  when 
leaning  forward  with  his  hands  still  upon  his  knees  and  his  elbows 
bent  outward  at  an  acute  angle,  this  redly-tinted  creature  addressed 
his  companion: 

"  Candor  compels  me  to  say  that  this  costume  is  not  so  becoming 
as  the  one  you  wore  at  the  masquerade,  Miss  Egerton." 

"When  she  had  first  recognized  him  a  vague  dread  had  come  upon 
her,  but  at  this  speech,  worse  in  its  import  than  anything  she  had 
feared,  she  forgot  all  prudence,  her  discretion  deserted  her,  and 
clasping  her  hands  imploringly,  she  sat  upright. 

"Oh,  Mr.  Tufnell!  you  are  naturally  kind-hearted,  and  I  am 
sure — " 


BEHIND   THE  ARRAS.  105 

"All,  lam  not  mistaken!"  he  broke  in,  leaning  back  with  the 
pleased  expression  of  an  ogre  who  has  discovered  a  delicate  morsel, 
in  the  shape  of  a  baby,  for  his  breakfast.  Then  she  saw  the  faux  pas 
she  had  made,  and  paused,  eagerly  hoping  against  hope  that  she 
had  not  completely  betrayed  herself. 

"Well,  young  lady,  this  is  pretty  behavior,  isn't  it?"  he  said, 
moving  over  beside  her,  and  very  quietly  but  firmly  taking  her  hand 
from  which  he  drew  the  old  woolen  glove.  "Humph!  this  is  con- 
firmation, for  no  old  lady  ever  possessed  such  a  pretty,  plump, 
white  hand.  No  need  to  snatch  it  away  so  fiercely,  my  dear  child; 
the  harm's  done.  The  secret's  out,  and  no  help  for  it,  you  see;  so 
you  may  as  well  make  the  best  of  it.  Would  you  like  to  return 
from  the  next  station?  that  will  be  Croydon,  I  think;  or  go  on  all 
the  way  to  Folkestone  for  the  night?  Now,  that  I  think  of  it,  per- 
haps we  had  better  go  on,  as  a  whiff  of  sea  air  will  do  you  good, 
and  besides  it  will  give  me  time  to  reason  with  you  a  bit."  Taking 
out  his  watch,  he  looked  at  it,  and  went  on:  "Two  hours  and  ten 
minutes  more  together.  There's  plenty  of  time  for  talk,  and  as 
you  don't  seem  in  the  least  disposed  to  sustain  a  conversation  just 
now,  let  me  tell  you  a  pretty  little  story,  to  beguile  the  time  it 
takes  you  to  compose  yourself. 

"  This  morning  at  daylight  I  went  out  shooting.  A  most  unsea- 
sonable, not  to  say  heathenish,  hour  to  go  banging  about  one's  pre- 
serves, I'll  confess — not  the  correct  thing  nowadays,  of  course;  but 
then  I  am  given  to  doing  things  differently  from  the  rest  of  mankind, 
I  fear;  so  taking  my  gun  and  '  Fanny' — Fanny's  a  pointer,  you  know 
— off  I  started,  see,  just  as  I  am  now.  But  somehow,  once  I  got  out, 
for  some  reason  or  another,  I  didn't  seem  to  care  a  straw  about  shoot- 
ing, and  let  the  birds  get  up  and  go  whirring  over  my  head  untouched, 
while  the  poor  old  dog  pointed  till  she  must  have  been  sick  and  tired. 
I  suppose  I  must  have  had  a  premonition  of  the  larger  game  I  was  to 
come  across,  which  made  the  partridges  look  too  uncommonly  small 
to  waste  cartridges  upon,"  and  he  gave  a  diabolical  grin;  "but  I 
anticipate.  Well,  I  kept  wandering  on  and  on  in  a  sort  of  gloomy 
abstraction,  for  the  morning  was  gray  and  dismal,  and  the  first  thing 
I  knew  I  found  myself  at  the  confines  of  my  land.  I  stopped,  and — 
for  the  life  of  me  I  can't  tell  what  made  me  do  it — stood  looking 
over  the  dividing  hedge  between  Sir  Griffith's  land  and  mine. 
Suddenly  I  heard  a  rustling  in  the  bushes  on  the  other  side.  'If 
this  be  the  big  game  coming  now,'  thought  I,  '  I  fear  I  shall  be 
sadly  tempted  to  play  poacher  for  once  in  my  life.'  The  rustling 
continued,  and  grew  nearer,  and  I  kept  my  eyes  glued  on  the  spot 
from  whence  the  sound  came,  thinking  ifc  might  be  a  hare,  at  least; 


106  BEHIND   THE  ARRAS. 

though  I  confess  that  I  had  my  doubts  as  to  that,  for,  beyond  a 
slight  elevation  of  Fan's  ears,  when  she  heard  the  noise,  the  old 
girl  gave  no  sign.  I  hadn't  long  to  wait  to  find  these  doubts  were 
well  founded,  for  the  next  minute  there  emerged  from  the  thicket 
into  the  open,  no  hare,  but — a  queer,  quaint-looking  old  woman 
who  glided  past  and  off  with  a  most  suspicious  rapidity  for  one  of 
her  apparent  age.  Instantly  it  flashed  across  my  mind  what  was 
up,  and  off  I  started  in  pursuit.  Keeping  you  well  in  sight — for  it 
was  you,  Miss  Egerton — and  thinking  I  should  fall  in  with  one  of 
my  gamekeepers  as  I  went  along,  and  give  him  the  dog  and  gun,  I 
followed  your  steps  on  my  side  of  the  hedge  until  you  reached  the 
road,  and  thence  tracked  you  all  the  way  to  the  'Alnwick.'  Not 
one  of  my  men  turned  up,  however,  and  a  pretty  figure  I  must  have 
cut  tramping  along  the  dusty  road  at  that  time  of  day,  with  a  gun 
under  my  arm  and  a  dog  at  my  heels,  and  looking  for  all  the  world 
like  some  itinerant  poacher  or  gamekeeper  out  of  place;  though, 
perhaps,  my  spectacles  saved  me  from  such  an  appearance,  for  I 
don't  think  anybody  ever  saw  a  poacher  or  a  gamekeeper  with 
spectacles. 

"When  you  came  to  the  field  where  the  harvesters  were  at  work, 
and  I  saw  your  quick  steps  change  to  a  hobble,  I  thought  my  sus- 
picions were  confirmed  beyond  a  doubt,  but  when  you  boldly  en- 
tered the  inn,  I  confess  I  was  staggered — nonplussed.  If  you  were, 
as  I  suspected,  Lucy  Egerton — though  I  had  no  earthly  reason  for 
fancying  anything  so  improbable  from  the  first,  beyond  a  sort  of  in- 
tuition— but  if  you  were  Lucy  Egerton  in  disguise,  how  had  you  the 
courage  to  go  into  that  public  house  and  subject  yourself  to  the 
close  scrutiny  of  so  many  inquisitive  eyes?  It  puzzled  me  immensely, 
I  assure  you,  and  I  had  half  a  mind  to  turn  about  and  go  home. 
Yet  I  waited  loafing  about  the  place  till  you  came  out  again,  and 
when  I  saw  you  go  to  the  station  and  take  the  train  for  town,  my 
suspicions  were  rekindled;  and  leaving  my  dog  and  gun  to  the  ten- 
der mercies  of  one  of  the  porters,  I  got  into  the  train  myself,  deter- 
mined to  see  the  thing  out.  I  was  on  the  point  of  getting  into  the 
same  compartment  with  you  and  trying  the  same  experiment  I  have 
tried  here,  but  I  found  those  beastly  farmers  had  got  ahead  of  me. 
On  our  arrival  in  London,  I  followed  you  in  a  hansom  from  Euston 
Square  to  Charing  Cross,  as  indeed  I  would  have  done  from  one  end 
of  the  world  to  the  other  till  I  found  an  opportunity  of  speaking  to 
you  in  private  without  chance  of  interruption.  That  I  couldn't  do 
as  you  sat  in  the  waiting  room,  for  the  people  never  stopped  coming 
in  and  out.  And  a  nice  tiresome-  two  mortal  hours  I  had  of  it,  I  can 
tell  you.  I  couldn't  leave  the  Terminus  and  go  anywhere  in  town  in 


BEHIND   THE  ARRAS.  107 

the  rig  I  was  in,  and  besides  I  didn't  want  to  lose  sight  of  you.  So 
I  sat  in  the  men's  waiting  room  and  read  and  re-read  the  sauce  and 
cocoa  and  corn-flour  posters  until  I  got  them  all  by  heart,  and  then 
I  got  up  and  paraded  the  draughty  platform,  watching  the  trains 
come  and  go,  and  getting  in  everybody's  way,  until  they  must  have 
thought  I  was  an  escaped  lunatic  with  a  pedestrianic  mania.  Lucidly 
I  had  my  short  clay  along,  but  a  man  can't  smoke  all  the  time,  so  I 
filled  up  the  rest  of  the  time  eating  sandwiches  in  the  refreshment 
room.  Positively  I  don't  think  I  ever  got  away  with  so  many  sand- 
wiches at  one  sitting  before  in  my  life.  By-the-bye,  I  noticed  that 
you  took  no  refreshment,  and  so  I  bought  these  for  you,"  and  he 
drew  a  large  parcel  of  sandwiches  from  a  capacious  pocket  in  his 
shooting-jacket,  "thinking  they  would  be  acceptable  to  any  old 
woman,  even  if  said  old  woman  did  happen  to  be  Miss  Egerton. 
Allow  me  to  offer  you  some."  No  answer  beyond  a  shake  of  the 
head.  "  Nonsense;  you  must  be  hungry,  and  they  are  really  very 
good.  Do,  now,  take  just  one,"  still  holding  the  tempting  package 
toward  her. 

"  I  am  not  hungry/'  she  said,  visibly  irritated. 

"No?  why  how  very  odd.  Notwithstanding  the  vast  number  I 
have  already  consumed,  do  you  know  that  I  actually  still  feel  un- 
commonly peckish;  so  as  you  will  not,  with  your  permission,  I 
will,"  and  half  a  sandwich  disappeared  in  his  enormous  mouth. 
"  Come,  now,  won't  you  be  tempted?  "  as  after  a  moment's  interval 
of  vigorous  munching,  he  held  them  out  once  more. 

Very  snappish,  it  must  be  confessed,  was  the  "  No"  that  escaped 
from  Lucy's  lips,  but  conclusive  it  was  in  its  effect  on  her  com- 
panion. He  pressed  her  to  eat  no  more.  And  as  he  sat  and  ate 
the  sandwiches  himself,  alternately  taking  big  bites  and  talking, 
her  anger  and  vexation  gradually  gave  way  before  the  genuine  good 
nature  and  odd  kindliness  of  manner  of  this  man  who,  with  what 
would  have  been  cool  effrontery  in  another,  took  to  himself  the 
right  of  doing  in  his  own  peculiar  way,  what  he  thought  was  most 
for  her  good;  and  before  he  had  ceased  speaking,  her  thought, 
"  This  man  is  insufferable,"  changed  to  the  conclusion,  "He  means 
it  all  for  kindness." 

"You  don't  know  what  you're  missing,  young  lady,"  continued 
Tufnell,  taking  another  bite;  "they're  good,  remarkably  good;  in 
fact,  no  end  goo —  '  His  teeth  closed  on  a  sinewy  piece  of  ham,  and 
his  laudations  suddenly  ceased.  "  I  suppose,  now,  you  have  been 
wondering,"  he  went  on  after  a  pause,  which  he  devoted  solely  to 
the  mastication  of  the  sinew,  and,  with  a  more  serious  air,  broach- 
ing the  subject  he  most  desired  to  talk  to  her  upon,  "why  it  was 


108  BEHIND  THE  ARRAS. 

that  I  wished  to  speak  with  you  alone  without  fear  of  interruption," 
— munch,  munch — "why,  in  short,  I  couldn't  have  said  all  I  wanted 
to  say  to  you" — munch,  munch — "in  the  waiting-room  at  the  sta- 
tion. In  the  first  place" — bite — "  I  knew  we  couldn't  talk  there"- 
munch,  munch — "without  attracting  attention,  for  it's  against  the 
rules  for  men  to  invade  the  ladies'  rooms,  and  that  I  imagined  you 
wanted  to  avoid.  But  setting  that  reason  aside" — bite — "  it  would 
not  have  suited  my  purpose" — munch,  munch — * '  to  speak  to  you 
there,  for  to  tell  you  the  truth — I  never  could  tell  a  lie" — munch, 
munch — "  I  knew  I  was  powerless  to  force  you  to  return  against 
your  will" — munch,  munch — "  so  I  determined  to  have  a  good  long 
talk  with  you,  and  by  calm,  dispassionate  reasoning  try  to  persuade 
you  to  abandon  this  foolish  freak  of  yours," — bite,  munch,  munch. 
"There!  the  last  sandwich  is  gone,  and  now  I'll  make  a  bargain 
with  you.  We  will  take  hold  of  this  subject  of  your  running  away 
from  home,  and  argue  it  thoroughly.  If  I  convince  you  that  you 
are  in  the  wrong,  you  must  promise  to  return  with  me  to-morrow. 
If  you  convince  me  that  you  are  in  the  right,  I  promise  to  aid  and 
abet  you  to  the  very  limit  of  my  power.  Will  you  consent,  my 
young  friend  ?  " 

"I  am  no  child,  Mr.  Tufnell,"  Lucy  replied,  still  a  trine  angry  at 
him;  "  I  can  see  how  much  you  keep  in  your  own  power.  I  am  not 
so  simple  but  that  I  can  tell  that  you  would  never  own  to  being  con- 
vinced; and  that  you  merely  want  to  extract  my  promise  by  means 
of  this  farce." 

"  My  dear  Miss  Egerton!  I  never  dreamt  of  such  a  thing!  I  give 
you  my  word  of  honor  as  a  gentleman,  that  I  will  be  a  perfectly  im- 
partial umpire  of  the  two  sides,  and  give  a  fair  and  honest  opinion. 
To  tell  you  the  truth,  I  feel  tempted  to  help  you  without  further 
argument,  for  I  know  well  what  it  is  to  have  all  the  world  against 
one  when  one  is  striving  to  find  the  right  path  of  duty.  But  we 
must  go  through  with  the  form  to  satisfy  my  conscience;  and,  per- 
haps, we  shall  find  that  you  are  mistaken  in  the  path  you  have 
chosen,  and  I  may  help  you  to  find  a  better.  Come,  say  you  agree 
to  the  plan." 

Not  long  before,  she  had  been  wishing  for  some  one  to  confide  in, 
some  one  to  talk  to  of  her  grief,  and  he  came  at  the  right  moment; 
for  although  Jolliffe  Tufnell  was  not  one  whom  she  would  have 
chosen  to  fill  such  a  position,  yet  her  heart  was  so  sore  that  even  a 
trifling  act  of  kindness  was  sufficient  to  win  her  at  once  and  forever. 
At  one  time  she  had  thought  she  rather  disliked  this  man,  but  so 
much  did  she  feel  the  loss  of  all  she  held  dear  upon  earth,  her 
home,  her  friends,  her  day-dreams  of  happiness,  that  his  disinter- 


BEHIND   THE  AERAS.  109 

ested  kindness  thawed  her  out  of  her  dislike  and   distrust.     She 
answered: 

"  Yes!"  heartily,  and  gratefully. 

"  Very  well,  then,"  he  said,  smiling;   "it  is  agreed." 

"Agreed,"  she  echoed. 

"  And  shake  hands  on  it." 


CHAPTER  VII. 

Give  sorrow  words;  the  grief  that  does  not  speak 
Whispers  the  o'er-fraught  heart  and  bids  it  break. 

—  Macbeth:  Act  IV,  Scene  3. 

"N  the  first  place,"  said  Mr.  Jolliffe  Tufnell,  folding  his  arms 
and  settling  himself  comfortably  as  though  with  a  keen  relish 
for  the  discussion  about  to  begin,  "  I  will  briefly  state  the 
facts  of  the  case  as  they  are  known  to  fme,  and  you  will 
kindly  suggest  any  necessary  correction.  You,  the  young  person 
beside  me,  have  been  brought  up  by  the  Egertons  of  Bratton*  as 
their  own  child,  and  from  the  first  dawn  of  reason  you  have  always 
looked  upon  yourself  as  Lucy,  only  daughter  of  Sir  Griffith  and 
Lady  Egerton.  For  nineteen  years — a  very  long  time,  young  lady — 
no  word,  no  hint  was  dropped  that  you  were  other  than  what  you 
supposed.  Last  week  a  ball — a  masquerade — was  given  to  celebrate 
your  nineteenth  birthday,  and  at  that  ball  two  old  ladies  had,  as  is 
their  custom  all  the  world  over,  a  quiet  gossip  about  things  that  did 
not  concern  them.  You  played  eavesdropper,  a  character  of  ques- 
tionable propriety,  and  taking  for  gospel  truth  what  you  had  every 
reason  to  believe  to  be  a  tale,  manufactured,  prepared,  for  the  occa- 
sion, swallowed  it,  not  cum,  as  you  should  have  done,  but  sine  yrano 
salts;  and  putting  aside  the  evidence  of  your  senses  for  the  past — well 
say  seventeen  years,  for  you  can't  very  well  remember  further  back 
than  that — not  pausing  to  consider  that  evidence,  you  took  the  other 
alone,  consisting  of  a  mere  gossiping  statement,  unsupported  by  a 
single  fact  or  circumstance,  so  far  as  you  are  aware,  and  which 
amounted  to  positively  nothing,  and  fled.  Phoebus!  was  there  ever 
a  more  idiotic  proceeding!  for  even  admitting,  for  the  sake  of  argu- 
ment, that  the  old  women's  tale  was  true,  in  every  particular,  how 
could  it  possibly  mend  matters  to  fly  away  from  the  soft,  snug  nest 
fortune  had  found  and  feathered  for  you  so  lavishly,  and  wander  out 
into  the  cold,  heartless  world?" 

He  paused,  and  his  quiet  attitude  with  arms  calmly  folded  con- 
trasted strangely  with  the  energy  of  his  language. 


HO  BEHIND   THE  AREAS. 

"All  you  have  said,  Mr.  Tufnell,  is  quite  true,"  Lucy  answered, 
with  visible  emotion;  "  all  true,  with  one  exception.  I  did  not  rely 
solely  upon  the  mere  statement  of  those  women.  At  first  it  was  a  great 
shock  to  me,  and  I  believed  it;  but  as  the  evening  passed,  doubts  of 
its  truth,  suggested  by  what  }rou  have  thought  I  did  not  consult — 
my  recollections  from  infancy — entered  my  mind.  After  the  un- 
masking I  sought  out  Miss  Lifford,  who  had  also  overheard  what 
the  women  had  said,  and  asked  her  if  it  was  true.  She  answered, 
'  Too  true,  Lucy — only  too  true! '  Those  were  her  precise  words." 

"  That  woman's  an  idiot,"  he  muttered,  with  a  shake  of  the  head. 

"  She  told  me  all  I  wished  to  know,"  warmly;  "and  I  can  never 
be  sufficiently  grateful  to  her.  But  as  though  that  was  not  enough 
proof,  I  overheard  others  speak  on  the  same  subject — even  Sir  Grif- 
fith and — and — some  others,  for  I  hid  in  the  house  a  whole'  week." 

"  "£ou  don't  say  so!"  he  exclaimed.  "They  must  be — uncom- 
monly— not  to  put  it  too  strong — stupid,  not  to  have  discovered 
you." 

"  I  was  too  well  hidden  for  that,  Mr.  Tufnell;  but  let  me  go  on. 
Every  night  after  dark  I  wandered  about  the  house,  for  my  hiding 
place  was  so  lonely/'  with  a  sigh,  "  and  in  that  way  I  heard  many 
talk  and  give  their  opinion  of  my  disappearance.  From  scraps  of 
the  servants'  talk  I  learned  beyond  a  doubt  that  a  large  number  of 
people  knew  of  my  having  been  adopted  by  Sir  Griffith  when  I  was 
a  baby,  and  that  at  one  time  it  had  been  the  chief  topic  of  conversa- 
tion in  the  neighborhood,  though  now  in  a  measure  forgotten.  For 
that  matter,  something  I  overheard  Sir  Griffith  say  is  proof  positive 
of  the  fact." 

"Yes?— and  that?" 

"  Speaking  of  me,  he  said,  '  think  that  I  have  reared  and  educated 
another  man's  child  for  this ! '  What  doubt  can  I  have  after  that  ? 
I  am  no  Egerton,  Mr.  Tufnell,  but  a — Sullivan." 

"Humph!  Well  then,  I  suppose  we  must  admit  as  a  fact,  though 
on  evidence  not  by  any  means  the  most  satisfactory,  that  you  are 
not  Lucy  Egerton  but  Lucy  Sullivan." 

For  all  that  she  had  imagined  that  she  had  become  accustomed  to 
the  name  from  her  own  mental  repetitions  of  it,  she  winced  as  she 
heard  it  now  pronounced  from  the  lips  of  her  companion;  but  the 
sensation  of  repugnance  was  scarcely  felt,  ere  she  thrust  it  aside 
with  a  powerful  effort." 

"Do  not  you,  Mr.  Tufnell,  who  were  a  young  man  and  in  the 
neighborhood  at  the  time,  know  it  to  be  a  fact?" 

"  I  did  not  think  you  could  be  so  spiteful,  my  young  friend,  as  to 
remind  me  of  my  forty  odd  years.  I  was  as  you  say,  a  young  man, 


BEHIND  THE  ARRAS.  HI 

then,  but  not  in  the  neighborhood,  although  I  had  recently  come 
into  possession  of  Knocklofty  Hall.  I  was  a  half-crazed  wanderer 
at  that  time,  and  not  till  years  afterward  did  I  hear  of  the  murder 
of  my  friend,  Louis  Dunraven,  which  occurred  but  a  short  time  be- 
fore your  adoption  by  Sir  Griffith.  I  went  down  there  a  year  or 
two  ago,  when  you  were  between  sixteen  and  seventeen,  to  ask  Sir 
Griffith  for  particulars  of  the  murder.  The  subject  was  a  painful 
one  to  him,  but  when  I  informed  him  of  my  reason  for  making  the 
inquiries,  that  I  had  a  certain  object  in  view,  he  not  only  gave  me 
all  the  information  in  his  possession,  but  joined  with  me  heartily  in 
my  efforts  to  gain  a  knowledge  of  all  the  facts  connected  with  the 
crime.  This,  of  course,  has  nothing  to  do  with  the  present  subject 
beyond  the  fact,  that  during  one  of  our  talks  together,  he  told  me 
that  you  were  not  his  own  child,  but  an  adopted  one.  I  asked  him 
if  it  was  generally  known,  and  he  said  that  it  could  not  be  other- 
wise, as  he  had  taken  you  from  the  town  of  Bratton,  but  that  peo- 
ple were  aware  that  he  did  not  wish  you  to  know  it,  and  strange  to 
say,  you  were  still  ignorant  of  the  truth.  He  also  said,  that  his 
adoption  of  you  as  his  daughter  had  caused  great  wonder,  not  so 
much  at  his  whim  as  at  his  wife's  consenting  to  it;  he  believed  they 
had  been  censured,  but  all  that  had  ceased  when  you  turned  out 
such  a  credit  and  ornament  to  the  old  name  of  Egerton.  But  what 
an  idiot  I  am  to  tell  you  all  this !  It  is  my  misfortune  that  I  never 
can  keep  anything  to  myself."  And  as  he  stopped  suddenly  in  his 
recital,  he  moved  uneasily  in  his  seat,  but  happily  for  his  peace  of 
mind,  did  not  see  the  tears  that  streamed  silently  down  his  compan- 
ion's face,  making  sad  havoc  with  the  wrinkles  beneath  the  old 
lace  veil.  "  Well,  well,  it's  out  now,  and  can't  be  helped,"  he 
went  on;  "but  this  is  not  by  any  means  an  end  of  our  discussion. 
We  have  yet  to  prove  whether  you,  as  Lucy  Sullivan,  were  right  or 
wrong  in  flying  away  from  home.  "What  could  have  been  your 
purpose  ?" 

"To  earn  my  living  by  the  work  of  my  own  hands,"  was  the  an- 
swer, in  a  low,  trembling  voice. 

'  'A  girl  brought  up  as  you  have  been  ?  Ridiculous  nonsense !  I 
bet  a  sixpence  you  don't  know  how  to  do  a  blessed  thing  beyond 
playing  the  fine  lady,  and  then  to  talk  of  earning  your  own  living! 
You  intended  to  work  roses  on  canvas,  I  suppose,  and  get  a  farthing 
for  a  week's  labor;  or  knit  worsted  thing-em-bobs,  and  sell  a  guinea's 
worth  of  materials  for  tuppence  ha'penny.  A  thriving  girl  you'd  be 
at  the  end  of  a  month!  My  dear  young  friend,  you  are  much  too 
sensible  to  have  ever  thought  seriously  of  such  a  thing.  You  per- 
haps thought  to  turn  governess  or  school-mistress,  or  go  on  the 


112  BEHIND   THE  ARRAS. 

stage,  and  live  by  the  labor  of  your  brains  and  not  of  your  hands. 
"Wasn't  that  it?" 

1 '  No,  I  meant  what  I  said.  To  live  by  hard,  honest  labor,  as  my 
parents  did  before  me,  was  and  still  is  my  intention." 

Tufnell  looked  at  her  for  a  minute  in  silence,  with  a  laugh  in  his 
blue  eyes :  he  seldom  laughed  aloud. 

"If  you  are  so  very  proud  of  your  parents'  honest  toil,  why  don't 
you  go  to  your  father  and  be  his  pupil  as  well  as  his  daughter?" 

"Oh,  Mr.  Tufnell,  I  could'nt.  It  was  partly  from  him  I  fled. 
How  could  I  change  a  home  of  refinement  and  luxury  for  the  con- 
stant companionship  of  a  man  I  had  never  known,  never  loved,  who 
had  deserted  me,  put  me  voluntarily  away  from  him  when  I  was 
young  and  helpless;  who  had — oh,  horrible! — killed  his  wife,  my 
mother?  I  am  heartless,  unnatural,  what  you  please;  for  I  have  no 
feeling  of  filial  tenderness  for  the  man,  nothing  but  dread,  aversion, 
horror.  Yet,  though  no  tie  of  kindred  binds  me  to  Sir  Griffith  or 
Lady  Egerton,  as  I  think  of  them,  the  alien  blood  in  my  veins  throbs 
with  love  and  gratitude.  Oh,  with  what  shame  do  I  remember  how 
bitterly  I  felt  towrard  them  at  first!  for  in  the  frenzy  of  the  moment 
I  accused  them  of  being  the  cause  of  all  my  pain;  but  now  that  feel- 
ing has  passed  away,  and  nothing  but  unbounded  love  remains." 

"I  must  confess  that  I  become  more  and  more  puzzled  every 
minute;'"'  and  in  his  excitement,  Tufnell  pushed  up  the  glasses 
from  his  eyes,  revealing  them  dim  with  a  moisture  drawn  forth  by 
the  girl's  words.  "Don't  you  know  that  that  man  Silliman,  Sulli- 
van— what's  his  name?  has  no — can  have  no  legal  control  over  you — 
that  he  willingly  gave  you  up  to  adoption,  and  that  anyhow  you  are 
of  age,  and  allowed  by  law  to  choose  for  yourself  where  and  with 
whom  you  shall  live?" 

"  I  know  that  very  well,  Mr.  Tufnell,  but  "— 

"  Then  why  the — hem!"  All  in  a  blaze  of  wonder  and  impatience 
he  caught  himself  just  in  time,  and  taking  out  a  huge  red  silk 
pocket-handkerchief,  proceeded  to  mop  his  face  in  silence,  and  let 
his  excitement  cool.  Then  putting  his  hands  on  his  knees,  in  his 
favorite  attitude,  he  went  on,  with  partially  regained  composure: 
"Why,  let  me  ask,  if  you  feel  toward  the  Egertons  as  you  profess, 
did  you  not  remain  as  you  have  been  for  the  past  seventeen  years  ? 
You  have  not  suffered  hitherto  from  your  position,  and  why  should 
you  now  ?" 

"Ah,  that  is  just  it,"  sighing  deeply.  "  So  long  as  I  was  ignorant 
of  the  truth,  I  was  happy,  but  once  I  knew  it  there  was  no  more 
peace  for  me.  I  grew  up  with  -a  pride  of  pedigree,  and  this  is  per- 
haps a  just  punishment  for  my  pride.  Am  I  in  any  way  different 


BEHIND   THE  ARRAS.  H3 

now  from  what  I  was  as  Lucy  Egerton  ?  People  liked  and  petted 
.me 'then;  but  when  it  became  known  to  them  that  I  was  another 
man's  child — of  humbler  origin  and  lower  station — yet  the  same  in 
myself  as  ever,  my  bringing  up,  which  alone  makes  or  mars  man  or 
woman,  was  cast  aside,  forgotten;  and  simply  because  less  worthy 
parents  had  brought  me  into  the  world,  no  longer  was  I  a  fit  com- 
panion for  young  ladies.  You  do  not  know  all  I  have  heard  said  of 
myself,  Mr.  Tufnell,  that  was  unspeakably  galling;  you  would  scarce 
credit  it  were  I  to  tell  you.  But  I  am  humble  now,  very  humble;  for 
what  have  I  of  which  to  be  proud?  Well  may  the  pauper  sons  of 
earth  sneer  at  pride  of  birth  and  ancient  pedigree !  What  name, 
what  fame  have  they  to  shield  and  keep  from  dishonor?  But  elevate 
them  to  a  high  station,  give  them  wealth  and  power,  and  will  not 
the  sense  of  pride  grow  and  increase  with  their  ascent?  ay,  as  would 
mine  this  moment  were  I  raised  once  more  to  all  I  have  so  lately 
lost.  And  I  dared  call  myself  humble !  No  more  humble  than  he 
is  Christian,  who,  good  when  nothing  tempts,  is  weak  when  evil 
tries  him .  What  virtue  in  humility  when  there  is  naught  to  make 
one  proud?  A  name  I  have,  but  not  Name  with  its  attendants  of 
honor,  power,  position,  friends,  wealth,  fame.  Name  that  in  itself 
alone  oftener  deters  great  men  from  crime  than  any  sense  of  moral 
rectitude  within.  'What's  in  a  name?'  In  my  case,  not  these 
things,  but  dishonor,  low  birth,  enemies,  poverty,  shame,  weakness. 
These  are  the  surroundings  of  Lucy  Sullivan!" 

She  fell  into  silent  thought,  while  Tufnell  looked  with  pity  at  the 
bowed  head  beside  him.  How  sad  it  was,  he  thought,  to  hear  the 
young  philosophize;  they  to  whom  all  the  world  should  be  bright, 
and  fair,  and  pure;  and  Lucy  was  very  young  to  be  learning  by  sad 
experience  the  weaknesses  of  human  nature.  He  had  himself  passed 
through  the  furnace  of  contumely  and  sorrow,  and  knowing  what  it 
was  to  suffer  in  its  fire,  pitied  her  with  all  his  heart.  He  let  her 
muse  awhile,  and  then  spoke: 

"  Young  friend" — she  started — "  we  have  wandered  from  the  point 
of  '  why  did  you  leave  home  ?'  Suppose  we  go  back  to  it." 

"  Well,  Mr.  Tufnell,  when  I  first  hid  myself  in  the  old  house  I 
simply  felt  that  I  wanted  to  get  away  from  all  who  knew  me,  at 
once  and  forever.  On  mature  deliberation,  I  would  have  acted  in 
the  same  way — not  on  impulse,  but  for  these  reasons:  Although  the 
law  would  permit  me  to  choose  between  two  homes,  my  conscience 
would  not.  My  father  had  forfeited  all  claims  upon  my  affection,  it 
is  true,  but  he  was  still  my  father,  and,  if  he  called  me  to  him, 
moral  law  would  force  me  to  obey.  I  ran  away,  for  one  thing,  to  be 
out  of  hearing  of  that  call.  But  putting  him  out  of  the  question, 
8 


BEHIND   THE  ARRAS. 

there  were  other  reasons  quite  as  powerful,  perhaps  even  more  so, 
which  were  strengthened  each  day  by  what  I  overheard.  I  could 
never  hold  up  my  head  under  the  weight  of  unkind  words  and  looks 
that  would  be  heaped  upon  me  by  the  outside  world,  once  my  true 
origin  became  known  to  others  than  the  townsfolk  and  neighbors  to 
whom  it  had  been  an  old  familiar  story  well-nigh  forgotten.  Even 
from  them  might  I  expect  little  mercy  now  that  the  story  had  been 
revived.  But  if  in  time  I  came  to  endure  it  all  patiently  and  some 
one  should  ask  me  to  be  his  wife — he  is"  faltering,  "I  mean,  he 
might  be,  sensitive — a  callous  nature  could  never  win  me — and  then, 
don't  you  see,  if  he  ever  became  ashamed  of  me,  if  he  felt  the 
sneers  of  society,  if  he  grew  unkind — oh,  it  would  kill  me!"  Then 
forgetting  her  companion,  everything  but  the  sorrow  weighing  most 
heavity  on  her  heart,  now  that  it  had  found  words,  she  burst  wildly 
forth:  "To  drag  him  down  in  the  eyes  of  the  world;  to  know  that 
he  winced  at  the  sound  of  my  name  and  lost  all  ambition,  as  he 
would  have  done — avoidance,  neglect,  mutual  recriminations  per- 
haps— oh,  horrible!  horrible!"  with  a  convulsive  shudder.  "If  I 
had  staj^ed,  had  yielded  to  temptation  beyond  my  strength  to  resist, 
kept  my  secret  from  him  and  married  him,  all  my  fears  wrould  have 
been  fulfilled  to  the  uttermost,  for,  oh,  he  is  false,  false  to  the  core; 
not  sensitive,  but  weak — weak  and  unmanly !  '  I  could  not  marry 
her  under  existing  circumstances,  considering  her  position  and  mine ' 
— those  were  his  words.  If  I  had  not  found  him  out  until  too  late ! 
If  I  had  told  him  the  truth  and  he,  fancying  himself  strong,  had 
persisted  in  marrying  me,  what  an  end — what  an  end  would  have 
come  to  all  my  dreams!  And  yet,  did  I  say  he  was  weak?  No,  no, 
it  is  I,  wretched  girl,  I,  who  am  weak!  for  false  though  he  be,  I  — 
I—" 

Her  head  sank  upon  her  hands,  and  she  burst  into  passionate 
sobs  which  shook  her  whole  frame  with  their  violence. 

They  were  kind  and  gentle,  albeit  awkward  hands,  that  forced  hers 
from  her  face,  loosened  her  bonnet- strings,  and  opened  the  window 
to  admit  the  refreshing  air. 

"Come,  young  lady,  don't  be  ridiculous.  What  a  foolish  child  it 
is,  to  cry  so.  Now,  don't,  please,  my  dear.  No  man  is  worth  such 
tears.  Dear,  dear,  what  shall  I  do  with  the  girl!  She'll  have 
hysterics,  and  I  have  no  idea  what  to  do  for  a  woman  in  hysterics, 
except  to  give  'em  salts.  Have  you  any  salts,  my  dear?  She's  too 
far  gone  to  heed  me,  poor  thing;  and  what  can  I  do  for  her!  No 
salts,  no  cold  water,  no  nothing!  She'll  get  worse!  she'll  faint!  per- 
haps die,  and  I  be  tried  for  murder!  A  pretty  scrape  for  a  respect- 
able old  bachelor  to  be  caught  in !  Hush,  hush,  don't  cry,  my  dear 


BEHIND  THE  ARRAS.  115 

child,  if  you  don't  want  me  to  take  you  home  again.  How  would 
you  like  to  turn  about  and  go  back  in  the  next  train  to  that  man 
Sullivan?  No  effect,  no  effect;  she  does  n't  even  hear  me.  I'm 
afraid  I'll  have  to — yes,  I  must,  I  will  summon  the  guard!"  and  he 
made  a  frantic  plunge  at  the  alarm. 

But  Lucy  had  heard  him;  his  excited  words  and  movements  had 
helped  to  bring  her  to  herself,  and  she  strove  for  mastery  over  her 
feelings.  She  caught  his  arm  before  he  touched  the  alarm. 

"I  a-am  all  ri-ri-right,  Mr.  Tufnell,"  she  sobbed;  "d-don't, 
please  d-don't  mi-mind  me."  And  then  she  buried  her  face  in  the 
cushions,  and  with  all  her  strength  kept  back  the  swelling  sobs; 
and  it  was  only  occasionally  that  one  overpowered  her  and  made 
itself  heard.  She  suffered  doubly  now,  for  had  she  not  told  her 
secret  to  this  man  ?  The  hot  blood  surged  with  shame  and  throbbed 
in  her  temples  as  she  imagined  what  he  must  think  of  her.  How 
could  she  ever  again  meet  his  eyes  with  hers  that  had  never  before 
shrunk  from  mortal  gaze?  She  wished,  for  the  moment,  that  some- 
thing would  happen,  some  accident,  a  collision,  a  broken  rail,  any- 
thing that  would  separate  them.  Why  had  he  interposed  in  her 
affairs,  with  his  meddling  curiosity?  Why  had  he  come  with  his  ill- 
judged  kindness  to  unsettle  her  mind  and  undo  the  work  of  all  these 
days;  to  break  down  the  bulwark  of  pride  and  scorn  she  had  raised 
around  her  aching  heart?  By  what  right  did  he  take  upon  himself 
to  thwart  her  wishes,  to  argue,  to  threaten,  to  betray  her  into  ac- 
knowledging her  secret?  Oh,  to  think  that  he  knew  that  secret! 
All  else  she  could  forgive,  but  that.  To  have  the  most  sacred  feel- 
ings of  her  soul  brought  under  the  observation  of  another;  to  be 
laughed  at,  sneered  at  and  held  in  derision!  Then  she  tried  to  re- 
member what  she  had  said.  She  could  not.  All  was  vague  beyond 
the  cautious  beginning;  and  here  came  a  ray  of  light.  If  she  had 
begun  cautiously,  why,  perhaps,  she  had  ended  in  the  same  manner, 
and  had  been  carried  away  by  thoughts  she  had  not  expressed  in 
words.  Perhaps,  after  all,  he  had  not  understood  what  she  had 
said,  and  thought  her  the  more  foolish  for  crying  about  an  imag- 
inary personage.  Ah,  she  would  not  mind  that  in  the  least,  if  only 
he  did  not  know  the  truth.  Balm  of  Gilead  in  the  idea!  and  she 
raised  her  head  to  look  at  him.  Quietly  he  sat,  and  innocent  he 
looked  of  the  knowledge  she  feared  he  possessed,  as  he  tranquilly 
read  his  newspaper.  He  looked  up  and  met  her  tearful  eyes  full  of 
a  pathetic  meaning  he  could  not  understand;  but  a  kindly  smile  lit 
his  face,  and  then  as  her  head  sank  once  more  he  broke  the  long 
silence. 

"These  things  are  becoming  much  too  common.  Let  me  read 
you  about  this  fearful  colliery  explosion." 


BEHIND   THE  ARRAS. 

As  lie  read  she  heard  of  death  coming  in  its  most  frightful  form, 
unexpectedly  and  painfully,  to  young  arid  old,  the  happy  and  the 
miserable  alike;  of  others  maimed  for  life;  of,  the  most  to  be  pitied 
of  all,  those  whose  loved  ones  perished,  or  were  crippled  and  thus 
became  a  constant  source  of  sorrow  to  themselves  and  all  around 
them.  She  forgot  her  own  troubles,  as  he  intended  she  should, 
while  she  listened  to  this  tale  of  suffering,  alas!  but  of  too  frequent 
occurrence;  yet  like  the  old,  old  tale  of  love,  ever  soul-stirring, 
rousing  our  best  feelings,  and  making  us  better  for  the  time.  When 
he  had  finished,  they  sat  in  silence  until  the  train  began  to  ap- 
proach Folkestone.  Then  he  told  her  to  put  on  her  bonnet,  and  she 
sat  up  meekly  and  did  as  he  wished;  and  when  presently  the  train 
stopped  at  its  journey's  end,  he  stepped  from  the  carriage,  helped 
her  out,  and  together  they  walked  away;  he  chatting  pleasantly,  she, 
silent  and  thoughtful,  her  hand  resting  trustingly  on  his  arm,  much 
the  better,  more  humble,  and  less  sore  at  heart  for  her  recent  out- 
burst of  emotion. 


CHAPTER  VIII. 

My  voice  shall  sound  as  you  do  prompt  mine  ear; 
And  1  will  Stoop  and  humble  my  intents 
To  your  well-practiced,  wise  directions. 

—  II  Henry  IV:  Act  V,  Scene  2. 

HAVE  not  yet  decided  the  important  question  as  to  your 
being  in  the  right  or  in  the  wrong,"  said  Jolliffe  Tufnell,  as 
he  and  his  companion  walked  on  through  the  principal  streets 
of  Folkestone. 

He  had  been  telling  an  amusing  anecdote  for  her  diversion,  but  at 
its  conclusion  turned  abruptly  to  the  "much-vexed  question. " 

"  I  must  sleep  on  it,"  he  continued,  "  and  in  the  meantime  your 
incognito  must,  I  suppose,  be  preserved.  This  dress  you  wear  is 
too  remarkable.  Give  me  your  promise  to  make  no  attempt  to  es- 
cape from  me,  and  I  will  do  all  that  is  necessary  and  right,  and 
proper  for  you,  as  regards  your  concealment. 

"You  are  kinder  to  me  than  I  deserve,"  she  returned,  with  tears 
in  her  voice,  "  and  I  will  not  leave  you  without  your  knowledge." 

"And  permission,"  he  added;  "remember  that  I  have  your  prom- 
ise to  abide  by  my  decision." 

'  Yes;  and  I  yours  to  judge  impartially.  You  have  failed  to  con- 
vince me  that  I  am  in  the  wrong;  and  if  I  have  failed  to  convince 
you  that  I  am  in  the  right,  why,  our  compact  is  at  an  end,  and  we 
part." 


BEHIND   THE  ARRAS.  117 

"  We  will  not  talk  about  that  until  to-morrow,"  he  replied.  "  I 
must  have  time  to  think  it  over,  and  I  asked  for  your  promise  not 
to  run  away,  in  order  that  I  need  not  act  as  your  keeper.  What  I 
want  you  to  do  is  to  change  your  appearance  without  further  delay. 
Go  into  that  hairdresser's  there  and  buy  yourself  a  black  wig,  for 
yonr  own  hair  is  too  remarkably  pretty  and  uncommon  to  escape 
attention;  I  will  go  into  the  shop  beyond,  and  when  you  have  made 
your  purchase,  walk  slowly  up  the  street  until  I  catch  up  with  you. 
Do  you — ahem — need  money?  " 

"No,  thanks,"  she  answered  a  trifle  haughtily,  and  entered  the 
hairdresser's  shop. 

A  few  minutes  later  they  were  again  walking  on  together.  Tuf- 
nell  had  bought  a  shepherd's  grey  plaid  shawl,  and  folding  it  around 
Lucy,  created  a  marked  change  for  the  better  in  her  antiquated 
appearance. 

"Now,  there  remains  but  one  other  thing  to  decide  upon,"  he 
said,  "  except  the  momentous  question  which  I  have  reserved.  You 
must  pass  for  somebody  or  other  at  the  hotel.  It  would  never  do 
to  acknowledge  you  as  a  young  lady.  You  must  call  yourself  Mrs. 
— something  or  other — a  widow — would  not  Mrs. — Mrs.  Whym  do  ?  " 

"Very  well,  indeed,  except  as  regards  its  aptitude." 

"  Therein  'lies  its  only  merit,  child.  But  let  us  settle  on  a  line 
of  conduct  to  pursue.  We  must  not  appear  too  intimate — Mrs. 
Whym.  If  you  want  me  to  take  tea  or  breakfast,  luncheon  or  din- 
ner with  you,  you  must  send  me  a  request  for  the  pleasure  of  my 
company,  by  a  waiter.  Do  you  understand  ?  " 

"Perfectly." 

c '  And  do  you  think  you  can  play  your  part  until  we  come  to  some 
other  arrangement  ?" 

"Quite  sure,  Mr.  Tufnell;  and  I  am  deeply  grateful  for  the 
trouble  you  are  taking  on  my  account." 

"  Trouble  ceases  to  be  trouble  and  becomes  pleasure  in  gratifying 
a  "Whym,"  he  said,  bowing. 

They  had  reached  the  Pavilion  Hotel  now,  and  were  registered 
as  "Mrs.  Whym,  Liverpool,"  and  "  Jolliffe  Tufnell,  Esquire, 
Knocklofty  Hall, shire." 

As  they  went  up  the  stairs  together,  he  whispered,  "  Say  that 
your  trunks  have  been  sent  on  to  Lyons,  Paris— anywhere;"  and 
then  they  separated,  and  went  to  their  rooms. 

The  hotel  was  not  full,  and  Lucy  having  her  choice  of  some  of 
the  best  rooms,  selected  a  sitting-room  with  bed-room  adjoining 
that  looked  out  on  the  pier,  and  harbor,  and  the  blue  water  of  the 
channel  beyond. 


BEHIND   THE  ARRAS. 

"When  she  had  succeeded  with  no  little  difficulty  in  washing  the 
tear-streaked  paint  marks  from  her  face,  had  put  on  a  plain  black 
dress  from  her  traveling-bag,  and  covered  her  bright  head  with  the 
black  wig,  she  wrote  on  a  card : 

"Mrs.  Whym's  compliments  to  Mr.  Tufnell,  and  hopes  he  will 
give  her  the  pleasure  of  his  company  at  dinner  this  evening  at  6." 

But  before  she  rang  the  bell,  she  returned  again  and  again  to  the 
looking-glass  to  take  one  last  look,  and  make  sure  that  no  golden 
hair  peeped  out  under  the  black  wig;  no  vestige  of  a  wrinkle  re- 
mained. It  was  a  startlingly  changed  face — one  she  herself  could 
scarcely  recognize,  that  looked  at  her  from  the  glass;  finally,  gain- 
ing a  little  confidence,  she  summoned  the  waiter,  and  nervously 
awaited  the  result  of  his  coming.  Would  he  notice  any  difference 
in  her  appearance  ?  No.  With  a  careless,  though  respectful  glance 
he  took  the  card,  and  after  receiving  her  orders  for  dinner,  left  the 
room.  She  wondered  at  herself  for  having  been  so  foolishly  nervous, 
as  she  stood  at  the  window  looking  out  at  the  water  with  the  vessels 
gently  swaying  on  its  surface.  There  was  not  much  that  was  pleas- 
ing to  the  eye  in  the  masts  and  coils  of  rope,  lobster  baskets,  and  nets, 
oars,  sails,  spars,  and  luggage  strewn  about  on  the  pier,  nor  in  the 
tarpaulin-hatted  boatmen  loitering  about  the  docks.  Perhaps  her 
thoughts  were  following  the  smoky  track  of  the  fast  receding  Boulogne 
steamer,  the  one  she  would  have  taken  had  she  kept  on  her  way  as 
she  had  at  first  intended,  and  thinking  how  much  better  off  she  was 
under  the  protection  of  this  man  whom  she  began  to  like,  and  whom 
she  felt  intuitively  would  help  her  in  her  purpose,  than  if  she  were 
now  approaching  the  French  town,  alone,  friendless,  without  an 
idea  of  self-maintenance,  beyond  the  wish  for  work  of  some  un- 
known kind. 

Whatever  were  her  thoughts,  here  it  was  that  Jolliffe  Tufnell 
found  her  when  he  opened  the  door  after  a  thrice-repeated  and  un- 
heard knock.  As  his  foot  struck  against  a  chair,  she  turned  with  a 
start,  and  came  towards  him . 

"What's  the  matter,  young  friend,  turned  suddenly  deaf  like 
Miss  Pross?  Phoebus!"  with  a  step  backwards  and  both  hands 
raised,  a  huge  bulwark  of  defense.  "Is  this  the  fair-haired  angel 
I  knew  at  Bratton — this  witch,  this  black-haired,  black-eyed  sor- 
ceress? Avaunt,  dark  spirit!  thou  makest  me  feel  as  Duncan  might 
at  the  approach  of  Macbeth,  or  he  at  sight  of  moving  Birnain  wood. 
By  Jove ! "  as  he  retreated  laughing,  and  sank  into  a  chair, 
"  mother  nature  knew  what  she  was  about  when  she  provided  that 
golden  fluffy  stuff  to  soften  the  outlines  of  your  face.  With  your 
dark  eyebrows  and  lashes  it  made  a  pleasing  sunshine  and  shadow; 


BEHIND  THE  ARRAS. 

but  now  you  are  positively  all  shade.  Grand  and  wicked-looking; 
decidedly  handsome  when  your  color  deepens  as  it  does  now;  but 
for  all  that,  were  such  beauty  natural,  I  would  consider  my  life 
safer  in  the  keeping  of  a  Sicilian  bandit  than  in  your  hands,  should 
your  ebon  locks  wave  in  anger.  "What  a  change  a  mere  wig  has 
wrought  in  you !  I  wonder  if  it  could  do  as  much  for  me  ?"  as  he 
rose  quickly  and  strode  to  the  looking-glass.  "  I'm  awfully  ugly, 
and  no  mistake!  And  yet  I  would  hardly  change  in  appearance 
with  the  handsomest  man  in  England,"  spreading  his  coat-tails  be- 
fore the  fire.  "  There  is  much  comfort  in  feeling  that  one  has  some 
slight  defense  against  the  machinations  of  obedient  daughters 
whom  my  repulsive  looks  make  almost  rebellious,  for  once  in  their 
lives,  to  the  wishes  of  designing  mammas.  It  is  an  enormously 
pleasant  sensation  to  be  run  after,  even  if  money  be  the  magnet; 
but  when  it  comes  to  matrimony,  if  a  man  has  plenty  of  the  golden 
loadstone,  he  wishes  it  at  the  top  of  Mount  Blanc — for  a  time,  if 
only  until  after  the  ceremony.  Moderate  wealth,  although  by  no 
;means  the  synonym  of  happiness,  believe  me  child,  is  nevertheless 
one  of  its  necessary  concommitants  and — Hark!  I  hear  the  clatter 
of  dishes  in  the  hall — premonitory  signs  of  dinner,  so  be  on  your 
guard,  Mrs.  Whym." 

In  the  presence  of  the  waiter  and  during  the  progress  of  dinner, 
the  conversation  turned  upon  topics  of  the  day — Lord  So-and-so's 
speech — the  last  motion  in  the  House — the  recent  indisposition  of 
the  Queen  and  probable  consequences  of  her  death — Tennyson's  new 
poem — the  failure  of  Cheat,  Steal  &  Co. — the  success  of  young  Thai- 
berg's  "Aphrodite" — advancing  civilization  of  the  Japanese — the 
coming  Centennial  celebration  in  the  United  States,  and  so  forth  and 
so  on.  Tufnell,  either  from  motives  of  kindness  to  his  vis-a-vis,  or  from 
a  mere  love  of  exercising  his  conversational  powers — perhaps  it  might 
have  been  from  a  combination  of  both — kept  the  talk  very  much  to 
himself.  Narcissus  was  not  more  enamoured  of  his  own  beauty 
than  this  man  appeared  to  be  with  the  sound  of  his  own  voice,  as 
Proteus-like  he  changed  with  marvelous  and  never  flagging  rapidity 
from  subject  to  subject.  But  when  they  had  left  the  table  and 
drawn  their  chairs  before  the  fire,  and  there  was  no  apathetic  but 
open-eared  waiter  in  the  way,  it  was  silence  and  not  confidential 
talk  that  fell  upon  the  two.  Long  they  sat  and  watched  the  coals 
drop  through  the  bars  into  the  ashes  beneath,  and  perchance  to  one 
or  other  of  them  came  the  thought  that  in  like  manner  would  they 
one  day  drop  from  the  noisy  active  world,  where  genius  blazes  forth 
for  a  time,  giving  light  to  those  around,  sometimes  igniting  with  its 
fire  other  and  more  sluggish  souls,  oftener  seeing  those  around  shine 


120  BEHIND   THE  ARRAS. 


wi 


ith  the  reflected  lustre  of  its  own  unnoticed  flame— drop  from  tins 
bright  world,  worn  out  by  the  inward  blaze  which  takes  its  flight 
into  eternity,  leaving  naught  but  ashes  behind.  At  length,  with  a 
sigh  which  roused  Lucy  and  made  her  look  up,  Tufnell  brought  his 
mind  back  from  the  land  of  dreams,  rolled  his  chair  back  a  few 
inches,  placed  his  arms  at  the  favorite  angle  and  spoke: 

' 'Mrs.  Whym — by-the-bye  altogether  too  appropriate  a  name  in  a 
world  where  every  one  is  playing  at  odds — Mrs.  Whym,  I  suppose 
you  have  heard  the  popular  saying,  '  turn  about's  fair  play '  ?  All 
popular  sayings  are  true,  and  this  one  is  particularly  applicable  to 
the  subject  of  my  thoughts.  Young  lady,  you  have  told  me  a  great 
deal  to  day,  of  which  it  must  have  been  most  painful  to  speak/'  A 
vivid  flush  crimsoned  Lucy's  face  at  the  remembrance  of  that  last 
unwittingly  acknowledged  secret.  "I  had  no  right  to  your  confi- 
dence and  I  am  most  grateful  for  your  trust  in  me — it  was  not  mis- 
placed. Now,  although  you  may  not  care  a  farthing  for  the  affairs 
of  an  old  fellow  like  me " 

"Oh,  Mr.  Tufnell,"  deprecatingly. 

"It  is  not  natural  that  you  should,  my  dear." 

"  Then  mine  must  be  a  very  bad  nature,"  she  said,  softly. 

"Well,  well,  so  much  the  better  if  you  can  feel  interested;  for 
what  I  wish  to  tell  you  of  my  own  life  may  be  of  service  to  you  in 
proving  that  you  are  not  the  only  one  in  the  world  who  has  met 
with  sorrow.  I  have  never  before  spoken  on  the  subject  and  it  is 
rather  painful  to  probe  the  wound." 

"Oh  pray,  pray,  do  not  speak  about  it  now,  Mr.  Tufnell,  if  it  will 
cause  you  pain." 

"Nonsense,  child!  It  will  do  me  good  in  the  long  run.  The 
human  heart  needs  sympathy,  but  I  have  always  shunned  it,  be- 
cause until  now  I  never  met  one  whom  I  thought  likely  to  give  the 
genuine  article.  You  have  suffered  recently,  are  suffering  now,  poor 
child,  and  will  know  how  to  pity.  Besides,  I  have  another  and 
stronger  reason  for  speaking,  which  I  will  not  tell  you  until  to-mor- 
row morning.  It  is  early  yet;"  looking  at  his  watch,  "  and  I  will 
make  my  story  short." 


BEHIND  THE  AREAS.  121 


CHAPTER    IX. 

' '  Beneath  an  exterior  which  seems,  and  may  be, 
Worldly,  frivolous,  careless,  my  heart  hides  in  me," 
He  continued,  ' '  a  sorrow  which  draws  me  to  side 
With  all  things  that  suffer — nay  laugh  not,"  he  cried, 

"At  so  strange  an  avowal." 

— "Lucile." 

'OLDING  his  arms  and  leaning  back  in  his  big  arm-chair, 
Jolliffe  Tufnell  told  the  story  of  his  life,  as  though  in  the 
fire,  which  lent  its  reflection  to  his  glistening  spectacles,  his 
attentive  eyes  saw  the  whole  in  panorama. 
"I  was  always  ugly,"  he  began;  "that  fact  was  the  first  idea 
grasped  by  my  infant  mind,  and,  therefore,  I  use  it  as  a  starting  point 
in  my  narrative.  It  was  forever  dinned  into  my  ears  by  my  good 
humored,  not  very  handsome  father;  by  my  cold,  proud,  beautiful 
mother;  by  my  brother  Ralph,  six  years  my  senior,  and  who  from 
an  early  age  gave  promise  of  great  manly  beauty.  Even  the  serv- 
ants ventured  to  jest  upon  the  subject,  for  I  was  not  a  pet,  scarcely 
like  a  son  of  the  house,  but  a  neglected  little  monster  of  ugliness. 
Two  sisters  younger  than  Ralph,  had  died  in  infancy,  and  my 
mother  hoped  for  a  girl  in  me.  I,  the  last  child,  was  a  sore  disap- 
pointment to  her;  she  had  set  her  heart  upon  a  daughter  and  from 
me,  a  hideous  urchin,  it  turned  with  repugnance.  The  estate,  not 
a  large  one,  for  my  father  was  a  younger  son,  was,  of  course,  settled 
upon  Ralph;  yet  notwithstanding  he  would  have  it  all,  I  was  re- 
garded by  him  with  undisguised  disfavor,  as  something  that  nec- 
essarily increased  our  father's  expenses,  and,  consequently,  de- 
creased the  sum  total  he  would  be  able  to  leave  at  his  death.  My 
brother  wanted  no  one  to  share  his  pottage.  And  so  I  came  into  the 
world  an  incumbrance,  a  hindrance,  a  bore  to  every  one,  a  load  of 
misery  and  unhappiness  to  myself.  All  superfluous  cash  went  upon 
Ralph's  education,  and  then  to  give  me  one,  for  without  it  I  could 
not  be  expected  to  make  my  way  in  the  world,  my  father  was  obliged 
to  scrimp  and  save.  It  was  hard  upon  him,  but  he  made  me  feel  it, 
not  with  the  intention  of  being  unkind,  but  because  he  did  not  un- 
derstand, did  not  take  the  trouble  to  understand,  my  unfortunately 
sensitive  disposition.  Unconsciously  he  would  wound  me  with  un- 
thinking remarks,  and  send  me  off  to  cry  my  heart  out  with  child- 
ish misery  in  some  out  of  the  way  corner. 

"  Sometimes  Ralph,  who  looked  down  upon  me  with  contempt  from 
his  own  height  of  happiness,  would  find  me  in  my  hiding  place,  and 
jeer  and  laugh  at  the  '  great  big  girl.'  Ah,  how  often  have  I  wished 


122  BEHIND   THE  ARRAS. 

I  was  a  girl!  For  many  a  long  day  I  believed  that  the  little  girls 
who  occasionally  came  with  their  mammas  to  the  house,  were,  when 
at  home,  kept  upon  pedestals  like  statues  to  protect  them  from 
harm.  "Whenever  they  chanced  to  come,  I  was  always  brought  into 
the  room  for  their  amusement;  not  to  play — oh,  no,  but  to  be 
laughed  at  by  them  and  their  mammas  for  my  uncouth  appearance. 
My  name,  even,  sent  people  into  convulsions.  Jolliffe — Jolliffe! 
Oh,  Phoebus!  what  a  name!  and  taken  in  conjunction  with  Tufnell 
— it  was  diabolical.  My  father's  choice,  it  was;  and  little  thanks  to 
him,  for  a  man  too  fond  of  fun  at  another's  expense.  His  favorite 
amusement  was  to  have  me  brought  in  after  dinner,  place  me  on  the 
table,  and,  while  I  stood  there  in  an  agony  of  shame,  tell  the  laugh- 
ing company  how  I  had  but  one  natural  gift — my  beauty;  and  that 
my  one  hope  in  life  was  to  marry  some  beautiful  heiress  who  would 
take  me  for  my  charms  alone.  My  mother  sometimes  pitied  me,  and 
saved  me  from  these  scenes,  but  oftener  she  was  too  much  occupied 
with  my  handsome  brother  who  was  her  idol  now,  to  have  thoughts 
to  spare  for  me.  Ah!  it  was  cruel — cruel — to  torture  a  child  so. 
And  yet  they  were  good  people  as  the  world  goes:  charitable,  hos- 
pitable, In  sickness,  no  one  could  be  kinder  than  my  mother  so 
far  as  my  bodily  needs  were  concerned;  but  beyond  the  tips  of  her 
fingers  on  my  pulse,  her  hand  never  touched  mine  in  caress.  No 
kisses,  no  loving  words  were  for  me.  To  minister  to  my  soul  she 
knew  not  how.  My  father  would  say :  c  Feel  better,  Jolliffe  ?  Hurry 
up  and  get  well,  for  I  have  a  large  dinner  party  next  week  and  want 
to  exhibit  my  curiosity/  They  never  sought  my  love,  but  they  had 
it — they  have  it  now,  for  they  knew  not  what  they  did. 

They  sent  me  to  Eton,  where  I  was  the  butt  of  my  form,  of  course,  but 
at  this  school  I  found  my  first — my  only  friend — Louis  Dunraven,  a 
boy  in  the  sixth  form.  I  was  his  fag;  or  rather,  he  called  me  such  to 
protect  me  from  the  cuffs  and  blows  that  would  have  been  unsparingly 
bestowed  upon  me  had  I  fallen  into  other  hands.  He  had  passed 
through  that  wretched  period  of  boy  life  at  a  public  school,  in  the 
service  of  a  tyrant;  but  when  it  came  to  be  his  turn  to  exercise 
power,  instead  of  revenging  upon  another  what  he  had  suffered  him- 
self, he  saved  me,  the  weakest  in  spirit  of  the  whole  school,  from 
many  a  thrashing.  We  lodged  in  the  same  house,  and,  despite  the 
disparity  in  our  ages,  formed  a  strong  and  lasting  friendship.  Of 
course  mine  was  the  advantage,  for  I  had  nothing  to  give  but  my 
whole  heart — a  very  worthless  and  scanty  return  for  all  his  goodness 
to  me.  He  helped  me  in  my  studies,  corrected  my  Latin  verses  for 
me,  turning  my  spondees  into  dactyls  or  dactyls  into  spondees  as 
occasion  required,  taught  me  to  bowl  slow  twisters  and  keep  wicket, 


BEHIND   THE  AREAS.  123 

for  lie  was  captain  of  the  eleven;  in  fact  I  may  thank  him  for  all  that 
I  know,  for  I  had  no  talent,  no  genius,  nothing  but  perseverance 
brought  into  play  by  gratitude  for  his  kindness,  and  the  wish  to 
please  him.  He  was  a  good  boy,  a  good  man,  and  when  I  think  of 
the  way  in  which  his  life,  which  from  a  human  point  of  view  should 
have  been  filled  with  happiness,  was  brought  to  a  conclusion,  I  dare 
not  murmur  at  my  own  hard  luck.  Ah,  Louis!  noble-hearted,  high- 
minded,  generous  Louis!  to  him  I  owe  the  little  that  I  have,  and  his 
life  I  nearly  ruined.  When  he  left  Eton  and  went  up  to  Cambridge, 
I  had  risen  in  the  school  and  was  able  to  hold  my  own.  Even  then, 
his  kind  interest  in  me  did  not  cease.  He  wrote  me  encouraging 
letters  full  of  advice  and  hopes  for  my  future.  He  was  reading  for 
holy  orders,  and  I  determined  to  follow  in  his  footsteps.  When  I 
timidly  broached  the  subject  at  home,  my  father  laughed,  Ralph 
sneered,  but  my  mother  said,  '  let  him  have  his  own  way/  So  it 
was  settled  and  in  due  time  I  went  up  to  Cambridge.  Dunraven 
was  still  there  and  expected  to  take  his  degree  in  a  year.  Formerly 
we  had  been  like  elder  and  younger  brothers;  now  we  were  more  on 
an  equality,  for  I  had  grown  older  in  mind  more  rapidly  than  in  years. 
He  was  greatly  liked  and  respected,  not  only  by  all  the  fellows  of 
his  own  college,  but  of  the  others  who  knew  him,  and  was  an  im- 
mense favorite  with  the  authorities.  Again  he  was  of  service  to  me, 
for  as  his  friend  I  was  spared  much  that  a  shy,  unsociable,  ugly  fel- 
low like  myself  was  likely  to  encounter.  I  was  just  nineteen  and  in 
two  more  years  would  have  taken  my  degree,  when  my  father  died. 
Ralph  came  into  possession  of  the  property,  and  his  first  act  was  to 
marry  a  vain  flaunting  woman  of  shady  antecedents.  Broken- 
hearted at  her  son's  misalliance,  my  mother  left  the  house  without 
a  word  of  reproach  or  farewell  to  the  idol  who  had  so  illy  repaid  her 
motherly  love.  I  traced  her  out,  and  found  that  she  was  living 
comfortably  but  plainly  and  in  great  retirement  on  her  small  jointure. 
Of  course  I  did  not  wish  to  pain  her  by  my  presence,  and  she  never 
knew  of  my  having  discovered  her  place  of  abode. 

"  Ralph's  wife  was  extravagant,  and  spent  more  than  his  income. 
One  day  he  wrote  me  a  heartless  letter  saying  that  I  had  had  quite 
enough  education;  that  it  was  humbug  my  going  into  the  church, 
as  he  knew  of  no  patron  from  whom  a  living  was  to  come,  and  that 
I  must  give  up  the  idea  unless  I  chose  to  starve.  He  would  buy 
me  a  commission  in  the  line,  and  then  I  might  go  my  own  road  to 
ruin  as  fast  as  I  pleased;  but  anything  else  to  assist  me  he  would 
not  do.  My  choice  then  lay  between  the  army  and  the  poor-house. 
What  was  I  to  do  ?  All  my  worldly  wealth  was  the  meagre  legacy 
left  me  by  my  father— too  little  to  enable  me  to  remain  at  college 


124  BEHIND  THE  A  ERAS. 

until  I  was  prepared  to  take  orders.  He  knew  well  his  advantage, 
and  lie  took  it.  I  was  naturally  submissive,  and  I  yielded  to  neces- 
sity. Beading  for  the  church,  I  entered  the  army,  and  you  may 
guess  the  result.  With  no  taste  for  dissipation,  poor,  unprepossess- 
ino"  and  diffident,  I  soon  became  a  target  for  the  heartless  chaff  of 
the  barrack-room  and  mess-table.  Those  who  tormented  me  now, 
brothers  in  arms,  but  brothers  in  naught  else,  held  my  heart  with 
no  ties  of  kindred,  and  my  blood  often  rose  in  anger.  I  could  not 
afford  to  quarrel  with  them,  however,  and  bore  their  jibes  as  best  I 
could. 

"  Dunraven  was  ordained  now,  and  about  to  be  married.  And  in 
his  brotherly  letters  of  sympathy  and  advice,  his  feelings  occa- 
sionally carried  him  away,  and  he  would  write  in  glowing  terms  of 
his  fiancee.  She  was  radiantly  beautiful,  he  said,  sweet  tempered  as 
an  angel  and  as  good,  and — all  lovers  talk  alike,  I  suppose — and  in 
six  months  they  were  to  be  married.  Poor  Louis!  his  bright  dreams 
of  happiness  were  never  to  be  fulfilled.  His  betrothed  is  an  old 
maid  now — Miss  Julia  Lifford."  Not  noticing  Lucy's  start  of  sur- 
prise, he  went  on,  quiet  and  motionless,  his  voice  alone  expressing 
varied  feeling  as  the  scenes  of  his  life  passed  in  review.  "  Now  was 
the  wedge  inserted  which  eventually  shivered  his  happiness  and  my 
peace  of  mind.  He  lost  his  father  and  the  marriage  was  postponed. 
My  father's  elder  and  only  surviving  brother,  an  old  bachelor,  was 
taken  down  with  a  sudden  attack  of  gout  in  the  stomach,  and  went 
the  way  of  all  flesh.  The  Kuocklofty  estates  being  strictly  entailed 
in  the  male  line,  fell  to  Ealph;  but  not  long  did  he  live  to  enjoy 
them.  He  was  thrown  from  his  horse  while  hunting  during  the 
following  winter,  and  broke  his  neck.  He  died  childless,  and  I 
thus,  suddenly  and  unexpectedly,  came  into  ten  or  twelve  thousand 
a  year,  and  a  place  of  my  own.  Would  he  had  lived  and  saved  me 
from  what  I  became!  Hitherto  I  had  suffered  only  through  others; 
now,  came  a  time  when  I  myself  was  to  be  the  tormenting  demon 
and  destroyer  of  my  own  peace.  Of  course,  I  could  not  have  that 
woman,  Ralph's  wife,  in  my  house;  my  house!  think  of  it!  and  do 
not  blame  me  if  my  sudden  fortune  nearly  turned  my  brain.  I,  who 
never  before  had,  or  expected  to  have,  a  superfluous  shilling.  Well, 
when  she  was  comfortably  settled  elsewhere,  much  against  her 
will,  too,  for  she  couldn't  comprehend  that  I  was  master  now, 
I  obtained  leave  and  sought  out  my  mother,  and  offered  her  a 
home  under  my  roof.  She  accepted  it.  All  her  old  hopes  buried 
in  the  grave,  she  gave  what  remained  of  her  affections  to  me.  The 
human  heart  must  have  something  to  love,  and  when  all  else  was 
gone,  she  turned  to  me.  Oh,  it  was  exquisite  pleasure  to  feel  that  a 


BEHIND  THE  AREAS.  125 

mother's  love  was  mine!  and  I  was  as  a  nappy  child  for  the  first 
time.  It  would  have  been  cruel  to  thwart  any  wish  of  hers,  and 
perhaps  have  lost  me  the  new-found  treasure.  To  her  every  desire 
I  yielded.  I  would  have  left  the  army  now,  /md  followed  out  my 
cherished  plan;  but  no,  she  would  not  have  it.  '  The  head  of  the 
Tufn ells  enter  the  church  like  any  beggar?  Never!  My  duty  was 
to  my  tenants,  my  mother,  society,  to  my  country;  I  should  go  to 
Parliament;  I  must  leave  the  army,  of  course,  but  not  yet;  it  was 
her  wish,  her  command  that  I  remain  in  it  another  year;  I  could  ex- 
change if  there  was  any  talk  of  foreign  service,  and  for  that  matter 
I  could  go  into  the  Guards  or  some  swell  cavalry  regiment,  or  the 
Kifle  Brigade — any  crack  corps,  now  that  I  was  rich  enough  to  go 
the  pace  with  any  of  them;  but  stay  in  the  army  I  must,  and  learn 
something  of  life.  Intimate  association  with  polished,  well-bred 
men  of  the  world,  and  entrance  into  fashionable  London  society,  to 
which  my  possession  of  a  handsome  income  now  enabled  me  to  have 
access,  would  cure  my  morbid  sensitiveness,  rub  off  the  queer  cor- 
ners of  my  character,  and  polish  me  down  into  something  like  a 
gentleman.  See  how  much  improved  I  was  already/  That  was 
salve  to  the  wounds  she  gave  me.  I  was  improved  then  ?  ay,  but 
not  by  the  means  she  supposed.  It  was  the  knowledge  that  I  had 
become  of  consequence  to  some  one  in  the  world,  that  made  me  a 
happier  man;  and  assured  of  my  power  to  give  pleasure,  I  was  con- 
sequently more  self-possessed  and  perhaps  a  little  less  gauche  in 
manner.  I  am  naturally  weak,  and  I  yielded  to  importunities 
which,  while  they  took  much  of  pleasure  from  life,  yet  enhanced  the 
value  of  it  by  proving  that  it  was  a  subject  of  interest  to  another. 
I  joined  my  regiment  at  Maidstone,  a  different  being  from  the  one 
but  recently  snubbed  and  mercilessly  chaffed  in  the  mess-room. 
My  brother  officers  were  now  kinder,  more  friendly,  and  all  at  once 
seemed  to  take  an  immense  interest  in  me.  Some,  even,  fastened 
on  me  like  leeches.  It  was  easy  to  see  that  my  new  position  in 
life  was  the  cause  of  this  sudden  change,  and  I  might  have  shaken 
them  off  and  returned  to  my  old  existence.  No;  it  was  too  lonely; 
the  new  life  was  too  enchanting.  It  was  delicious  to  find  myself 
run  after,  and  made  much  of,  and  to  hear  my  sayings  laughed  at 
and  repeated  as  bon  mots.  It  was  all  so  new,  and  strange,  and  de- 
lightful, that  I  forgot  cause  in  effect,  and  was  completely  carried 
away  by  the  tide  of  endless  dissipation.  Unconsciously  I  was  led 
deeper  and  deeper,  by  light-headed  thoughtless  companions  into  all 
kinds  of  folly  until  I  was  almost  afraid  to  look  back.  At  last,  it 
seemed  impossible  that  I  could  ever  retrace  my  steps.  I  played 
more  heavily  and  drank  deeper  to  deaden  thought. 


126  BEHIND   THE  ARRAS. 

"  The  London  season  opened.  My  mother  had  come  up  to  town 
and  taken  a  house  for  the  season  in  Bruton  street,  and  I,  as  much  to 
be  near  her,  and  in  for  all  the  gaities  of  London,  as  to  cut  away 

from  the  wild  set  I  had  been  in,  exchanged  into  the th  Lancers, 

then  quartered  in  Hounslow  and  Kensington.  My  mother  being  in 
mourning  went  out  but  Kttle,  and  at  first,  I  managed  to  devote 
much  of  my  time,  when  not  on  duty,  to  her;  and  for  a  time  I  fondly 
imagined  that  I  had  succeeded  in  altering  my  former  mode  of  life, 
and  away  from  the  old  influences  and  temptations,  hoped  to  accom- 
plish a  complete  reformation.  If  my  mother  had  aided  me  in  my 
good  resolves,  perhaps  all  would  have  been  well.  On  the  contrary, 
she  insisted  that  I  should  go  out  as  much  as  I  could;  she  wouldn't 
for  the  world  be  a  tie  upon  me,  and  what  was  London  in  the  season 
without  London  life?  Of  course,  I  gave  way  again,  and  weak  as  I 
was,  I  needed  slight  persuasion.  I  was  soon  drawn  into  the  giddy 
whirl  of  pleasure,  and  what  with  dinners,  and  balls,  and  parties,  and 
opera  suppers,  by  night;  and  dejeuners  and  garden  parties,  and — I 
was  going  to  say  kettledrums,  but  they  hadn't  come  into  fashion 
yet — by  day,  I  soon  had  time  for  little  else,  and  sometimes  I  didn't 
see  her  for  weeks  together.  Besides,  I  quickly  discovered  that  I 
had  made  a  sad  mistake  in  another  matter.  I  had  thought  rny  com- 
rades in  the  old  regiment  reckless  and  dissipated;  but  they  weren't 
a  tithe  to  my  new  brother  officers.  The th  was  a  '  fashion  fam- 
ous '  corps,  and  regarded  as  the  fastest  set  of  men  in  the  service. 
Meeting  them  only  at  mess  and  on  duty,  I  might  have  held  myself 
aloof  from  their  rapid  style  of  life,  but  mixing  in  society  with  them 
it  was  impossible.  All  my  hopes  of  altering  for  the  better  vanished 
with  the  temptations  that  now  beset  me;  all  my  good  resolves  went 
to  the  winds,  and  the  old  story  of  brainless  dissipation  repeated 
itself  with  me,  only  to  a  tenfold  degree. 

"Bich  and  unmarried,  my  ugliness  was  forgotten,  and  I  had  my 
pick  and  choice  of  the  prettiest  girls — the  prettiest  were  generally 
the  poorest — at  the  balls;  and  I  might  have  had  the  same  in  matri- 
mony. For  one  alone  I  felt  anything  beyond  a  mere  liking.  For 
the  first  time  in  my  life  I  was  in  love,  and  all  things  now  become 
tinted  with  rainbow  hues.  She  was  not  poor,  she  had  a  snug  little 
fortune  of  her  own,  so  that  I  felt  sure  she  would  not  many  for 
money.  Little  as  I  cared  what  brought  the  butterflies  of  society 
about  me,  so  long  as  they  came,  I  could  not  bear  that  this  nature's 
butterfly  should  be  attracted  by  the  same  light.  Her  mother  and 
mine  were  old  friends,  and  I  was  intimately  received  at  their  house, 
where  Mildred  showed  to  even  greater  advantage  than  in  the  ball- 
room. A  year  before,  I  would  not  have  had  courage  to  fall  in  love, 


BEHIND   THE  ARRAS.  127 

and  now  I  actually  asked  a  good,  pretty  girl  to  marry  a  fellow  who 
was  ugly,  weak  minded,  utterly  devoid  of  strength  of  character, 
and  without  a  single  redeeming  trait.  And  she  loved  me — me!  the 
worthless  scapegrace.  From  her  own  lips  I  heard  the  confession, 
and  it  lifted  my  mind  above  the  life  I  was  leading.  With  shame  and 
remorse  I  determined  on  a  new  course.  The  demon  that  pos- 
sessed me  was  strong,  but  love  was  yet  more  powerful.  Fatally  for 
me  love  had  to  do  its  work  alone,  unaided  by  moral  courage,  a  virtue 
that  was  not  mine. 

"Nothing  to  do  but  to  cast  off  wild  associates,  you  will  say,  an  easy 
task.  Not  so.  Once  intimate  with  young  men  of  fashion,  'twas  no 
easy  matter  to  break  away  from  them,  and  the  company  they  led  me 
into.  With  moral  courage,  the  thread  of  intimacy  might  have  been 
snapped  at  once,  but  without  that  all  important  essential  of  a  man's 
character,  one  loiters  upon  the  road  of  good  intentions,  never  en- 
tering the  city  of  good  acts;  fortunate,  if  at  last,  one  does  not  stray 
into  the  region  of  crime. 

"  Each  day  with  increasing  repugnance  I  resolved  to  leave  these 
companions,  but  not  just  now,  I  would  say;  'tis  hard  to  lose  all  I 
have  gained,  and  again  be  looked  upon  as  a  milksop,  and  a  '  Miss 
Molly/  Wait;  it  will  be  easier  by-and-bye,  to  slip  stealthily  out  of 
this  net.  Once  I  am  married  none  will  wonder  at  the  sudden  change 
in  me.  What  possessed  me  I  know  not  unless  it  was  the  fiend  him- 
self. 

"  At  leng'th  my  mother  began  to  look  grave  at  my  delinquencies 
whenever  we  met.  She,  who  had  urged  me  to  the  edge  of  the  preci- 
•  pice !  Was  it  my  fault  that  I  had  fallen  over  ?  I  worked  guilty 
conscience  into  anger  and  the  belief  that  all  were  to  blame  but  my- 
self; and  yet  the  burden  that  I  placed  upon  other  shoulders  made 
mine  feel  none  the  lighter  for  its  division." 

He  paused  an  instantrand  then  in  a  lower  voice,  deep  and  hoarse, 
continued : 

"At  last  the  clay  was  set  for  my  wedding,  and  I  decided  as  the 
first  step  in  the  right  direction  to  retire  from  the  army,  and  sent  in 
my  papers  .to  sell  out.  Feeling  already  half  a  reformed  man,  I  went 
to  see  my  mother.  She  met  me  with  reproaches,  which  in  my  then 
frame  of  mind  seemed  so  unjust  that  they  annoyed  me  and  I  angrily 
left  the  house.  I  went  at  once  to  Mildred,  thinking  in  her  society 
to  forget  all  trouble.  She  had  evidently  heard  rumors,  perhaps  ex- 
aggerated, reports  of  my  doings,  for  she  was  constrained,  even  cold 
in  her  manner.  In  no  mood  for  asking  an  explanation,  I  fled  from 
her  to  men  who  received  me  with  open  arms. 

"I  dined  at  mess  that  night  for  the  last  time.     My  retirement  I 


BEHIND   THE  ARRAS. 

knew  would  appear  in  the  morrow's  Gazette,  so,  as  it  was  to  be  my 
last  appearance  there  as  one  of  the  cloth,  it  was  made  a  sort  of  fare- 
well affair  to  me.  After  dinner  some  of  us  went  to  the  opera.  Al- 
most the  first  person  I  saw  was  Mildred  in  one  of  the  boxes,  and  a 
man  whom  she  knew  I  hated  paying  her  marked  attention.  The 
sight  maddened  me,  and  leaving  the  house  with  one  of  my  compan- 
ions we  wandered  into  a  gambling  house,  a  low  sort  of  a  place,  where 
I  am  ashamed  to  say  I  had  been  before.  With  repugnance  and  yet 
with  less  reluctance  than  usual  I  sat  down  to  play.  My  opponent 
was  a  semi-gentleman  of  notedly  bad  character.  At  first  he  let  me 
win,  the  usual  tactics  of  course,  and  then  as  the  stakes  increased  the 
tide  turned  and  I  began  to  lose.  This  angered  me.  Mad,  mad, 
mad  I  was  that  night;  goaded  to  insane  fury  by  my  mother  and 
Mildred — the  more  mad,  the  more  furious  that  I  knew  they  were  not 
altogether  wrong  and  that  I  was  far  from  altogether  right.  I  drank 
deeper  than  any  there,  for  had  I  not  more  harrowing  thoughts  to 
drown  ?  Play  ran  high,  and  luck,  as  ever,  was  against  me.  I  lost 
heavily — heavily.  Madder  still  with  drink  and  excitement,  half  my 
fortune  was  about  to  be  staked,  when  a  hand  was  laid  on  my  shoul- 
der, and  a  familiar  voice  sounded  in  nry  ear.  I  looked  up  and  be- 
side me  stood  Louis  Dunraven. 

"A  hush  fell  on  the  assemblage.  A  sense  of  shame  almost  sobered 
me;  and  when  he  whispered  to  come  away  I  rose  quickly  to  obey. 
Then  the  silence  was  broken  by  the  clamor  of  the  low  habitues  of 
the  place  who  had  been  waiting  patiently  for  the  time  to  arrive  when 
they  might  fleece  me  of  my  all.  '  The  stake  was  up/  they  said.  '  No, 
it  was  not  yet  put  up,'  answered  Louis.  They  knew  it  was  not,  but 
still  persisting  that  it  was  as  good  as  done,  and  my  honor  in  peril — 
ah,  I  think  it  was! — they  added  taunts  to  me  and  him.  To  him,  a 
clergyman  for  coming  to  such  a  place;  to  me  for  being  weak,  un- 
manly and  dishonorable,  to  be  thus  controlled  by  the  will  of  another. 
With  Dunraven  at  my  side  their  sneers  were  pointless  shafts,  and 
more  by  the  insults  heaped  upon  him  than  by  their  language  to  me, 
the  good  angel  within  me  was  roused,  and  stood  forth  to  help  me  in 
this  hour  of  need,  conquering  the  demon  that  had  ruled  so  long. 
One  man,  one  of  the  worst  characters  in  the  room,  a  sort  of  profes- 
sional gambler  grasped  me  by  the  arm  as  if  to  force  me  into  my  seat 
again.  I  wrenched  it  from  his  grasp,  and  with  all  my  soul  up  in 
arms  aimed  a  blow  that  laid  him  sprawling  at  my  feet.  In  another 
moment  he  was  up  and  upon  me,  and  we  were  struggling  together 
in  the  midst  of  overturned  tables  and  chairs,  to  the  sound  of  crash- 
ing glass  and  excited  human  voices.  I  heard  the  click  of  a  pistol,, 
and  was  hardly  conscious  that  a  third  had  joined  us  before  I  found 


BEHIND  THE  ARRAS.  129 

myself  separated  by  the  width  of  the  room  from  my  antagonist,  and 
beheld  Dunraven  standing  between  us,  the  rescued  pistol  in  his  hand. 
"  '  Gentlemen,'  he  said,  'this  commotion  may  bring  the  police. 
It  will  be  worse  for  you  than  for  us,  if  it  does.'  Completely  cowed 
they  slunk  away,  and  the  crowd  thinned  perceptibly.  Unmolested 
we  left  the  place.  Kind  brotherly  words,  free  from  reproach,  I  lis- 
tened to  that  night.  I  asked  him  how  he  had  known  of  my  where- 
abouts. Passing  through  London,  he  said,  he  had  called  in  Bruton 
street.  Into  his  ear  my  mother  had  poured  all  her  fears  for  me  and 
my  future,  beseeching  his  help  in  reclaiming  me.  At  once  he  had 
set  out  in  search  of  me,  no  procrastination  in  his  character,  and  had 
succeeded  in  tracing  me  from  place  to  place." 


CHAPTER  X. 

Then  black  despair, 

The  shadow  of  a  starless  night,  was  thrown 
Over  the  world  in  which  I  moved  alone. 

—  The  Revolt  of  Islam. 

UNKAVEN  was  obliged  to  leave  town  the  next  morning; 
but  assuring  me  that  he  would  return  in  a  few  days,  he 
made  me  promise  to  keep  away  from  temptation  in  the 
meantime.  Gladly  and  gratefully  I  gave  the  pledge. 
Parting  from  him  at  the  railway  station,  I  returned  to  my  rooms  in 
Curzon  street,  it  being  too  early  to  go,  as  he  had  advised,  to  see  my 
mother;  and  there  I  found  a  man  waiting  for  me  with  a  challenge 
from  the  fellow  I  had  floored  the  night  before  at  the  gambling- 
house.  I  had  no  intention  of  accepting  it  and  told  him  so.  He 
then  coolly  informed  me  that  if  I  refused  satisfaction  to  his  friend, 
reports,  exaggerated  and  highly  colored,  would  be  set  flying  of 
Dunraven's  exploits  in  a  gambling-house.  Seeing  that  such  reports, 
if  once  set  afloat,  would  have  sufficient  foundation  of  truth  to  blast 
his  character  forever,  I  began  to  waver.  Here  were  two  inevitable 
results  of  my  folly,  and  between  them  I  must  choose.  Greater  dis- 
grace to  myself,  or  immense  injury,  perhaps  ruin  to  my  friend. 
There  is  nothing  in  friendship,  in  life,  or  in  charity,  without  sacri- 
fice. Could  I  allow  him  to  be  the  one  to  offer  up  the  sacrifice  to 
friendship?  No!  if  I  was  ever  again  to  hold  up  my  head  I  must 
keep  it  free  from  a  weight  of  selfishness.  My  brain  confused,  and 
unable  to  think  clearly,  the  thought  never  occurred  to  me  that  even 
my  fighting  this  duel  might  not  save  Dunraven's  name,  but  would 
be  the  most  likely  thing  to  bring  the  whole  affair  before  the  public. 
9 


BEHIND   THE  ARRAS. 

Idiot  that  I  was  I  accepted  the  challenge.  The  following  morning 
at  dawn  we  met;  and  would  it  had  pleased  Heaven  that  I  might 
have  been  the  one  to  fall!  But  no,  it  was  intended  that  by  living  I 
should  expiate  my  faults.  My  adversary  was  dangerously,  perhaps 
fatally  wounded  at  the  first  fire,  and  I  fled  at  once  to  the  Continent. 
Then  followed  days  and  nights  of  sleepless  misery  while  his  life  hung 
in  the  balance,  for  I  had  now  fully  awakened  to  the  realization  of 
what  I  had  been— what  I  might  be  guilty  of.  Dunraven,  my  true 
friend  still,  came  over  to  me  there,  and  soothed  and  comforted  me 
as  a  father  might.  He  owned  that  stories  of  his  connection  with  the 
affair  had  begun  to  be  whispered  about,  and  his  character  assailed, 
but  consoled  me  with  the  assurance  that  in  my  power  it  would  be  to 
set  him  right  before  the  world.  Oh!  those  days  and  nights  of  sus- 
pense, remorse  and  penitence — days  and  nights  never  to  be  forgot- 
ten! Long,  long  they  were,  but  not  without  end;  for  just  when  it 
seemed  as  if  I  could  endure  them  no  longer,  the  clouds  began  to 
lift;  news  came  that  the  wounded  man  was  out  of  danger;  then  he 
was  recovering  and  the  clouds  rolled  higher — farther  still  they 
rolled,  for  he  was  almost  well.  Then  I  thought  it  safe  to  return, 
and  coming  back  to  England,  lived  in  retirement  for  a  short  time 
longer. 

"  One  night  before  the  man  was  completely  recovered,  I  went  with 
Dunraven  to  see  him,  and — but  never  mind  about  that  now.  At 
last  he  was  well;  and  then  I  came  out  from  my  seclusion,  and  did 
all  that  lay  in  my  power  to  clear  Dunraven,  writing  a  true  account 
of  his  connection  with  the  gambling-house  fracas  to  the  newspapers, 
and  giving  my  personal  assurance  of  his  innocence  to  such  of  my 
friends  as  did  not  shun  me.  His  previous  character  for  honor  and 
integrity  stood  him  in  good  stead,  and  he  stepped  forth  unscathed 
by  the  furnace  of  scandal. 

"  In  all  these  days  I  had  not  seen  nor  heard  from  Mildred.  How  I 
longed  to  go  to  her!  but  I  durst  not.  I  asked  my  mother's  advice 
on  the  subject.  '  It  was  her  place  to  make  the  advance,  not  mine,' 
she  said;  '  I  had  better  wait.'  I  did  wait,  day  after  day,  week  after 
week,  with  heartsick  yearning,  but  nothing  came  of  it.  During* 
this  time  I  noticed  that  my  mother  seemed  naturally  to  turn  against 
the  woman,  who,  if  she  truly  loved  me,  could  not  have  deserted  me 
now.  Slowly  and  warily,  though  I  guessed  it  not  at  the  time,  knew 
it  not  till  long  afterward,  she  tried  to  undermine  nay  love,  but  she 
only  succeeded  in  sapping  all  my  love  for  life. 

"  At  last,  one  afternoon  in  the  park,  I  met  Mildred  face  to  face. 
We  were  in  the  Kow.  With  a  joyous  bounding  of  the  heart  at  be- 
ing in  her  presence  once  more,  I  urged  my  horse  to  her  side.  Her 


BEHIND   THE  ARRAS.  131 

eyes  flashed  angrily  upon  me,  and  giving  a  cut  with  her  whip  upon 
her  horse's  flank,  she  dashed  ahead  without  a  word.  I  could  not 
have  been  more  surprised,  more  stunned  had  her  whip  come  down 
upon  my  head.  In  a  sort  of  daze,  I  passed  the  hours  until  a  note 
came  to  me  from  her.  I  tore  it  open  eagerly,  hoping  against  hope. 
'  As-  your  ungentlemanlike  behavior  of  to-day/  she  wrote,  '  proves 
that  your  feelings  are  not  fine  enough  to  enable  you  to  understand 
a  tacit  breaking  off  of  our  engagement,  I  write  to  inform  you  be- 
yond your  power  to  misconstrue,  that  I  consider  myself  freed  by 
your  conduct  from  all  promises  of  an  alliance  with  you.  In  the 
future  we  will  meet,  if  meeting  be  inevitable,  not  as  friends,  but  as 
strangers/ 

"All  that  night  I  lay  upon  the  floor  where  I  had  fallen,  not  less 
crushed  than  the  crumpled  note  in  my  clenched  fingers.  With  the 
morning  light  my  sense  of  manhood  asserted  itself.  Outwardly 
calm,  I  sat  down  and  wrote  to  Mildred,  saying  that  for  her  I  could 
have  no  reproaches;  she  had  acted,  no  doubt,  wisely;  I  for- 
gave her  freely  for  the  pain  she  had  given  me,  and  in  order  that  her 
dreaded  meeting  with  me  might  not  be  inevitable,  I  was  going  away 
to  the  wildest  parts  of  the  world  to  seek — I  knew  not  what.  Then 
a  few  words  of  farewell  to  my  mother.  I  couldj  not  trust  myself  to 
bid  her  good-bye,  for  her  prayers  might  have  had  force  to  keep  me 
against  my  will.  Then  alone  I  left  home  and  civilization,  and  went 
forth  into  voluntary  exile.  For  months  I  wandered  in  the  wilds  of 
Africa,  endeavoring  by  danger  and  bodily  fatigue  to  still  the  pangs 
of  memory.  Partial  success  was  all  I  achieved.  Of  my  adventures 
I  could  tell  you  to-night  and  to-morrow  night,  and  the  next,  and 
yet  again  the  next,  night  after  night,  for  perhaps  weeks;  but  for 
that  style  of  narrative  I  am  not  in  the  mood. 

"  Let  us  pass  them  over  in  silence,  and  come  to  the  time  wrhen  en- 
tering Cairo  I  was  obliged  to  apply  to  my  bankers  for  money.  For 
weeks  I  lingered  in  Egypt,  impelled  by  some  unreasoning  motive  to 
wander  through  the  country  of  the  Nile.  Perhaps  the  verdure-giv- 
ing river  reminded  me  of  the  love  which  had  at  one  time  flooded 
my  barren  life  with  promise  of  a  rich  harvest  of  bliss,  yet  had  left  it 
more  sterile  than  before,  but  unlike  this  faithful  stream  never  to  re- 
turn. There  I  wandered  and  there  came  to  me  a  letter  from  my 
mother.  It  commenced  with  reproaches  to  the  cruel,  cruel  boy  who 
had  left  her  so  long  in  anxious  suspense,  without  even  a  line  to  say 
he  was  alive,  and  whose  whereabouts  she  only  by  an  accident  learned 
from  his  bankers.  Then  came  entreaties  for  my  return,  followed 
by  prayers  for  forgiveness  for  something  yet  unmentioned,  that  she 
had  done.  It  had  been  all  for  my  good,  she  said,  and  with  the 


132  BEHIND  THE  AREAS. 

ft 

best  intentions  for  my  welfare,  that  she  had  acted  as  she  had,  and  I 
could  not  refuse  pardon  for  the  fault  which  had  sprung  alone  from 
her  love  for  me.  Long  drawn  out  was  her  letter,  as  though  to  ward 
off,  as  it  were,  till  the  last  possible  minute,  the  confession  begun 
upon  the  fourth  page;  a  confession  of  a  wicked  plot  against  my 
happiness,  interspersed  with  innumerable  excuses  for  the  double 
part  she  had  played.  Condensed  I  will  tell  it  to  you.  My  marriage 
with  Mildred  had  never  found  favor  in  her  eyes,  for  her  ambition 
had  led  her  to  believe  that  I  could  make  a  more  eligible  match — 
one  that  would  add  greater  consequence  to  the  Tufnells,  by  giving 
me  powerful  connections.  There  was  such  an  alliance  to  be  made. 
Lady  Jane  Montague  was  one  of  thirteen  daughters — poor,  or  she 
would  not  accept  me — but  she  was  of  one  of  the  oldest  and  most  in- 
fluential families  in  England.  My  mother  was  well  aware  of  the 
futility  of  trying  to  reason  with  me,  and  with  the  patience  of  a  wily 
woman,  waited  her  opportunity  to  cause  a  breach  between  Mildred 
and  me.  After  the  duel  she  had  felt  that  the  reasons  that  I  should 
marry  into  this  family  were  stronger  than  ever,  and  it  was  this  time 
she  chose  to  carry  out  her  scheme.  She  pretended  to  make  a  con- 
fidant of  Mildred,  and  into  her  ear  the  mother  poured  complaints 
against  the  son.  By  inuendos  and  half-finished  sentences,  sighs 
and  tears,  she  conveyed  far  more  than  she  could  have  done  in  a 
straightforward  tale;  and  effected  her  purpose  far  better  than  by 
the  latter  mode  of  action.  Poison  administered  drop  by  drop 
found  its  way  insidiously  to  Mildred's  heart;  whereas  from  one  large 
potion  she  would  have  turned  with  distrust,  doubting  what  it  shocked 
her  to  believe.  When  the  man  I  had  wounded  was  well,  she  sent 
me  word  by  my  mother  to  come  to  her  that  I  might  have  the  chance 
to  set  myself  right  if  I  could.  Failure  loomed  before  my  mother  if 
she  allowed  us  to  meet,  so  she  never  delivered  the  message.  To 
Mildred  she  affected  to  make  excuses  for  me,  yet  in  such  a  manner 
as  to  leave  the  inference  that  I  would  not  come.  During  these  days 
she  talked  to  me  of  the  virtues  of  this  other  woman.  I  thought  that 
in  the  kindness  of  her  heart  she  was  but  seeking  to  fill  the  void  in 
my  affections,  and  received  her  words  in  the  same  spirit.  Ah !  if  I 
had  only  had  firmness  then  to  crush  the  thought  in  her  mind!  She 
might  have  relented  and  rejoined  the  broken  thread  of  my  love. 
But  sufficient  of  this  scheming.  It  is  painful  to  tell  such  things  of 
one's  mother;  but  bear  it  in  mind,  as  I  do,  that  her  motive  was  my 
welfare.  Enough  to  say  that  she  succeeded  in  her  purpose,  and  we 
were  enstranged,  as  you  already  know.  Hardly  had  she  begun  to 
see,  as  she  thought,  clearly  to  the  end,  when  I  was  gone.  As  time 
passed  and  she  heard  no  word  from  me,  the  fear  seized  upon  her 


BEHIND  THE  ARRAS.  133 

that  some  evil,  she  knew  not  what,  had  befallen  me.  Filled  with 
guilty  remorse,  she  confessed  the  truth  to  Mildred,  beseeching  for- 
giveness; and  that  angel  of  goodness  forgave  her.  They  mingled 
their  tears,  each  comforting  the  other  with  the  hope,  which  neither 
felt,  that  I  would  soon  be  heard  from,  and  that  all  would  yet  be 
well.  It  was  when  news  arrived  that  an  adventurous  party  of  Eng- 
lishmen and  Americans  —  one  of  them  of  the  name  of  Tolfree, 
which  was  at  once  construed  into  Tufnell — penetrating  into  the 
Arabian  deserts  had  been  murdered  and  robbed  by  Arabs,  that  they 
gave  up  all  hope  of  ever  seeing  me  again.  My  Mildred,  my  flower, 
began  to  droop  and  fade,  slowly,  painlessly,  yet  surely,  and  oh! 
bitterest  drop  in  my  life-long  draughts  of  sorrow,  this  letter  of  my 
mother  came  too  late!  She — she  was  dead." 

Overpowered  by  emotion  Tufnell  bowed  his  head  and  covered  his 
face  with  his  hands.  When  he  again  spoke,  his  eyes  were  still 
shaded,  his  voice  husky. 

"Again  my  unfortunate  mother  cried  for  merciful  forgiveness; 
but  no,  my  heart  was  hardened  against  her,  I  could  not  forgive. 
"With  a  cruelty  greater  than  hers,  so  great  that  it  is  with  shame  I 
confess  it,  I  wrote  but  two  lines  to  say  that  she  had  killed  one,  and 
would  soon  have  another  death  upon  her  conscience.  I  went  once 
more  upon  my  travels.  Purposelessly  I  wandered  over  the  world  to 
America,  China,  Japan,  the  Indies,  a  great  weight  upon  me,  a  great 
void  in  life.  Years  went  by  and  I  was  still  an  aimless  wanderer  upon 
the  face  of  the  earth;  but  do  not  think  that  in  all  this  time  I  went 
about  haDging  my  head  and  sighing.  True  sorrow  does  not  parade 
its  woe.  There  were  times  when  I  even  laughed,  when  I  seemed  to 
others  a  pleasant  companion — this  without  egotism — and  there  were 
moments  when  mere  trifles  pleased  me.  Yet,  through  it  all  remained 
the  sense  of  something  wanting,  something  lost.  Thoughts  of  my 
mother  had  constantly  risen  in  my  mind,  and  at  first  I  strove  to  put 
them  aside,  but  as  time  passed  I  thought  of  her  less  hardly,  and 
one  day  I  wrote  to  her,  not  kindly,  I  grieve  to  say,  but  still  duti- 
fully and  with  no  harshness.  The  expected  answer  did  not  come. 
I  wrote  again  in  vague  alarm.  This  brought  a  response  from  one 
who  called  herself  my  mother's  companion,  saying  I  must  return 
home  at  once  if  I  wished  to  see  my  mother  alive.  I  went  where 
home  might  have  been,  but  was  not;  a  place  so  full  of  happy  mean- 
ing to  him  who  has  one,  conveying  such  painful  thoughts  of  impossible 
bliss  to  the  wretch  who  knows  no  hearthstone.  What  a  terrible 
change  in  my  once  beautiful  mother!  A  single  glance  and  the  face, 
lined  by  remorse  and  sorrow  even  more  than  by  age,  was  pillowed 
on  my  bosom,  the  shrunken  form  clasped  in  my  arms,  and  she  was 


134  BEHIND  THE  ARRAS. 

forgiven,  thoroughly — heartily.  How  peaceful  to  me,  as  I  know  they 
were  to  her,  might  have  been  these  last  days  of  her  life,  had  it  not 
been  for  something  which  had  happened  in  the  past,  that  I  now 
learned  for  the  first  time.  My  truest  friend,  he  to  whom  I  owed  so 
much,  Louis  Dunraven,  had  been  foully  murdered  in  the  woods  near 
Bratton,  it  was  supposed  by  Guy  Egerton.  I  had  written  to  him 
frequently  while  away,  but  at  length  became  offended  at  his  strange 
silence,  and  discontinued  my  unanswered  letters.  The  murder  had 
been  committed  so  long  before,  that  with  difficulty  I  obtained  any 
information  on  the  subject,  and  my  mother  who  at  the  time  had 
been  in  trouble  about  me  and  oblivious  to  all  else,  could  give  me 
but  few  particulars.  I  had  doubts  of  that  poor  boy  being  guilty, 
and  with  the  hope  of  solving  the  mystery  of  the  murder  and  the 
boy's  disappearance  arose  a  new  interest  in  life.  A  work  was  be- 
fore me  at  last,  and  to  it  I  determined  to  devote  all  my  energies. 
While  my  mother  lived,  which  was  longer  than  had  been  expected, 
my  presence  was  too  precious  to  her  to  allow  me  to  do  much  else 
than  to  give  my  time  to  her;  and  in  those  last  days  by  her  bedside 
reading  and  talking  on  religious  subjects,  my  lost  faith  came  back 
to  me,  and  before  she  died  she  had  my  promise  to  try  to  live  a  Chris- 
tian life.  Still  young,  yet  utterly  estranged  from  the  world,  I  was 
very  lonely,  but  I  had  purposes  now  in  life,  and  the  resolve  to  do 
some  good  to  others  before  I  too  quitted  this  earth.  What  would 
I  not  have  given  to  leave  the  busy  world  and  spend  the  rest  of  my 
days  in  retirement!  But  I  felt  that  there  were  duties  before  me 
which  I  must  not  shirk;  that  where  I  could  do  most  good,  there  I 
must  be;  and  putting  aside  inclination  I  mingled  once  more  in  so- 
ciety. In  these  last  few  years  I  have  been  enabled  to  save  many 
young  men  from  my  own  fate,  or  perhaps,  a  worse  one;  and  in  one 
way  and  another  to  do  more  good,  very  little  it  is  true,  yet  far  more 
than  I  had  ever  hoped  to  accomplish. 

"  I  am  not  unhappy  now,  and  when  the  one  great  purpose  of  my 
existence  is  achieved,  I  dream  of  a  quiet,  peaceful  old  age  in  retire- 
ment at  Knocklofty  Hall — a  battered  worthless  old  ship  coming  into 
harbor  after  a  long  and  tempestuous  voyage,  to  drop  slowly  to  pieces 
till  the  place  thereof  shall  know  it  no  more. 

"  Do  you  know  that  I  never  see  a  steamer  sailing  over  the  water  with 
a  great  cloud  of  smoke  in  her  wake,  that  I  do  not  think  of  human 
sorrow.  As  the  dark  and  heavy  mass  leaves  the  funnel,  at  first  it 
spreads  above  the  vessel  like  a  great  black  pall,  darkening  all  be- 
neath by  its  shadow;  but  by  degrees,  as  the  ship  speeds  onward,  it 
forms  into  a  train,  and  hangs  behind  as  more  springs  forth  to  take 
its  place,  thinning  slowly,  melting  into  air,  that  which  is  farthest 


BEHIND   THE  ARRAS.  135 

fading  first.  And  at  last  when  a  tranquil  haven  is  reached,  the 
smoke  no  longer  issues  forth,  and  of  what  has  before  darkened  the 
air,  soon  nothing  remains  but  specks  of  soot  upon  the  water. 

"  Does  not  sorrow  come  ever  fresh  and  new,  the  griefs  of  to-day 
thrusting  aside  the  woes  of  yesterday,  until,  as  we  advance  in  life, 
those  that  have  come  first  fade  into  insignificance?  Peaceful  har- 
bors there  are,  where,  if  we  have  not  foundered  in  the  tempest  of 
affliction,  or  been  wrecked  upon  the  rocks  of  despair,  we  may  find 
rest  while  present  trouble  sinks  into  the  past,  and  we  gain  strength 
to  renew  our  voyage  into  the  troubled  waters  of  the  future;  where, 
at  last,  worn  out  with  buffeting  the  billows  of  adversity,  we  may 
drop  anchor  and  slowly  fall  to  pieces. 

"  It  is  my  one  hope  that  in  some  quiet  harbor  I  may  find  my  rest, 
and,  when  the  last  timber  crumbles  and  falls  away,  that  all  my 
worldly  wealth  may  go  to  freight  a  better  craft  than  I  myself  have 
ever  been." 


CHAPTER  XI. 

This  narrow  isthmus  twixt  two  boundless  seas, 
The  past,  the  future,  two  eternities. 

—  Veiled  Prophet. 

NOCK— knock — knock  at  the  door  of  one  of  the  private 
sitting-rooms  in  the  Pavilion  Hotel,  Folkestone.  It  was 
^=*/\$/  breakfast  hour,  and  according  to  appointment,  Jolliffe  Tuf- 
T  nell  had  come  to  share  the  morning  meal  with  his  friend 
Mrs.  Whym.  The  breakfast  table,  with  its  snowy  cloth  and  hissing 
urn,  was  laid  when,  in  response  to  a  gentle  "  Come  in  "  from  within, 
he  entered;  and  Lucy  was  reading  over  the  advertisements  in  the 
supplement  of  yesterday's  Times,  while  she  awaited  his  coming. 

"  Good  morning,  Mr.  Tufnell,"  she  said,  as  she  laid  down  the 
newspaper,  and  came  forward  to  meet  him  with  a  smile;  "  I  am  glad 
to  see  you  so  punctual;  see,  the  clock  on  the  chimney-piece  has  only 
just  struck." 

"  Punctuality,  my  dear,  in  keeping  one's  engagements,  I  regard 
as  a  virtue;  quite  as  much  of  a  virtue  indeed  as  patience,  if  we  may 
judge,  I  am  sorry  to  say,  by  the  infrequency  of  its  practice  among 
mortals.  You  slept  well,  I  need  not  ask,  for  you  are  looking  re- 
markably well  this  morning.  I  was  right,  you  see,  in  thinking  a 
breath  of  sea  air  would  do  you  good. " 

It  was  true;  there  was  a  vast  change  for  the  better  in  Lucy's 
looks,  since  they  had  last  met.  Her  face  had  lost  much  of  the  ex- 
pression of  settled  gloom  it  had  worn  the  day  before,  and  the  first 


136  BEHIND  THE  ARRAS. 

faint  rays  of  the  sunshine  of  hope  and  a  contented  heart  seemed  to  be 
peeping  forth  in  her  smiles.  But  the  recital  she  had  listened  to  the 
night  before,  had,  perhaps,  more  to  do  with  the  improvement  than 
the  saline  tonic  of  the  atmosphere. 

"  Yes,  I  do  feel  wonderfully  light-hearted  this  bright,  beautiful 
morning;  wonderfully  light-hearted,  I'm  ashamed  to  say;"  and  she 
hung  her  head. 

"Nonsense,  child!  why  shouldn't  you?  But  come,"  changing 
the  subject  as  he  saw  the  old  shadow  creeping  back;  "  suppose — 
though  you  are  the  hostess,  and  it's  manners  in  a  guest  to  wait  to  be 
asked — suppose  we  go  to  breakfast.  I'm  awfully  hungry." 

"  Oh,  dear!  I  forgot,"  the  shadow  gone  again,  as  she  ran  over  to 
the  table;  "I  waited  to  make  tea  till  you  came.  I  did't  think — " 

"  You  didn't  think,  my  dear,  that  like  the  ghost  in  Hamlet,  I'd 
come  so  carefully  upon  my  hour;  that  was  it,  wasn't  it?  Well,  so 
much  the  better,  for  if  there  is  one  thing  more  than  another  I  like 
to  see,  it  is  a  young  lady  engaged  in  the  domestic  occupation  of 
making  tea;"  and  he  followed  her  over  to  the  table,  to  superintend 
the  operation.  "  One  spoonful  for  each  person,  is  the  formula,  I  be- 
lieve. But  that  won't  be  enough  when  there  are  only  two  people, 
will  it  ?  I  hate  weak  tea." 

"  And  one  for  the  pot,  you  know;"  said  Lucy,  taking  a  third  spoon- 
ful from  the  tea-caddy.  "  There,  that  will  do  famously;  besides, 
strong  tea  is  bad  for  one's  nerves,  they  say." 

"  Oh,  yes,  I  know  they  say  so;  but  it's  just  like  everything  else 
they  say,  you'll  find;  all  rubbish.  Do  you  know,  my  dear  young 
friend,  that  I've  observed,  as  a  fact,  that  the  old  women,  who  are  re- 
garded as  the  proverbial  tea-drinkers  of  the  world,  bar  the  Chinese 
of  course,  are,  some  of  them,  the  coolest,  most  deliberate,  nerveless 
old  hands  going.  Let  me  give  you  a  bit  of  this  broiled  ham,  Mrs. 
Whym?  I  can  recommend  these  rolls,  too,  they're  really  very  fair 
for  a  sea-side  hostelry.  Thanks;  yes,  its  quite  strong  enough,  I 
confess;  a  trifle  more  sugar,  please.  By  the  bye,  talking  of  tea  and 
the  Chinese,  reminds  me  of  a  yarn  I  heard  when  I  was  in  Hong 
Kong."  And  so,  while  Lucy  did  the  honors  gracefully,  and  lis- 
tened, Tufnell  rattled  on,  feeling  strangely  happy  in  his  present 
frame  of  mind,  this  man  of  moods,  and  determined  that  the  talk 
should  not  lag,  so  far  as  he  was  concerned.  He  put  off  the  con- 
sideration of  serious  matters  until  the  waiter  had  taken  his  final  de- 
parture; for  he  had  a  fixed  belief  that  all  servants  of  the  "male  per- 
suasion"— as  A.  Ward  puts  it— were  cast  in  the  yellow-plush  mold. 
But  at  length,  when  he  had  finished  his  second  cup  of  tea,  and  the 
waiter  with  his  Tower  of  Pisa-like  tray  of  crockery  and  Britannia- 


BEHIND  THE  ARRAS.  137 

ware  had  descended  to  the  regions  below,  he  drew  two  chairs,  for 
himself  and  Lucy,  before  the  window,  intent  upon  the  discussion  of 
the  business  of  the  day. 

"  I  want  to  have  a  little  talk,  now,  about  your  affairs, "  he  said; 
"  and  in  the  first  place  I  must  tell  you,  that  after  a  night's  reflec- 
tion on  all  that  you  said  to  me  yesterday,  I  have  determined  to  assist 
you  in  your  project.  You  are  of  age,  your  own  mistress,  and  though 
frankness  compels  me  to  say,  that  I  cannot  but  censure  your  con- 
duct in  leaving  those  who  have  been  all  in  all  to  you,  yet,  feeling  as 
you  do  at  present,  I  cannot  advise  you  to  return  to  them.  Try 
your  plan  of  life:  I  have  no  doubt  that  in  time,  when  your  mind 
becomes  more  tranquil,  and»you  have  thought  over  the  matter 
seriously,  you  will  see  it  all  in  a  far  difterent  light,  and  feel  better 
able  to  endure  what  now  appears  to  you  to  be  unbearable.  I  would 
be  sanguine  of  a  happy  future  for  you,  if  it  were  not  for  one  thing. 
It  troubles  me.  Misunderstandings,  springing  from  some  slight 
cause,  so  often  lead  to  life-enduring  sorrow  and  regret,  that  I  cannot 
feel  quite  satisfied  about — Is  it  not  possible  that  you  misjudge  Mr. 
Ingolsby  ?  that  you  did  not  rightly  interpret  his  words?  His  conduct 
during  the  search  for  you  was  not  what  one  would  expect  from  a  man 
who  spoke  as  you  suppose.  Would  it  not  be  wise  to  seek  an  expla- 
nation ?" 

"Mr.  Tufnell,"  and  as  Lucy  answered,  her  flushed  face  was  turned 
aside,  and  her  fingers  closed  tightly  upon  each  other,  "  this  is  the 
last  time  that  that  man  must  figure  in  our  conversation.  He  should 
not  do  so  now,  but  that  I  feel  it  my  duty  to  speak  without  reserve 
to  one  who  has  won  my  perfect  trust,  by  his  disinterested  kindness 
and  confidence  in  me.  The  expression  used  in  reference  to  me,  to 
which  you  refer,  was  explained,  if  explanation  it  needed,  by  Sir 
Griflith's  response.  I  remember  it  perfectly,  and  it  convinces  me 
of  his  meaning.  To  you  I  can  never  cease  to  be  thankful  for  all 
your  goodness,  and  willingly  will  I  take  your  advice;  but  on  this 
one  subject— Oh,  forgive  me!  forgive  me!  if  I  seem  ungrateful/' 
and  her  eyes  sought  his  in  supplication;  "for  I  cannot  allow  any 
one  to  dictate  to  me  modes  of  conduct,  which  my  woman's  nature 
will  not  sanction;  on  this  subject  my  own  heart  must  be  guide  and 
mentor." 

"I  beg  your  pardon,  child.  'Tis  I  who  should  apologise  for  my 
apparent  intrusiveness;  but  believe  me  I  only  wish  to  assist  you,  as 
I  would  have  liked  some  one  to  have  aided  me  when  I  was  young  in 
adversity.  As  you  wish  it,  then,  we  will  not  again  refer  to  the 
matter.  And  now  to  decide  on  a  future  course  of  action.  Have 
you  any  idea  in  what  manner  you  can  support  yourself  ?" 


138  BEHIND   THE  ARRAS. 

"  What  I  want,  Mr.  Tufnell,  is  a  position  which  can  be  obtained 
without  having  to  furnish  recommendations  or  references;  where  I 
will  be  seen  by  few,  and  those  few  unlikely  to  discover  my  identity, 
with  work  that  I  am  capable  of  performing,  not  too  hard,  yet  re- 
munerative, and  where  I  will  be  so  situated  that  I  can  remain  dis- 
guised." 

"  And  where  on  the  face  of  this  earth,  where  the  right  niche  for 
the  right  person  is  seldom,  if  ever,  found,  do  you  expect  to  find  such 
a  place  ?" 

"There  is  not  only  such  a  niche  in  this  world  for  me,  but  I  also 
intend  to  enter  it,"  she  said,  smiling. 

"Where?" 

"  In  the  service  of  a  lady  of  rank." 

"How?" 

"As  a  lady's  maid." 

"  Well!"  and  after  this  third  monosyllable,  a  final  ejaculation  of 
wonderment,  conveying  a  meaning  the  very  reverse  of  what  the  word 
itself  expressed,  Tufnell  rose  abruptly  from  his  seat,  and  thrusting 
his  hands  deep  into  his  pockets,  paced  the  room.  "  Young  woman, 
young  woman,  this  will  never  do.  Be  your  birth  what  it  may,  you 
are  a  lady  by  education  and  refinement,  and  you  must  not  take  the 
situation  of  a  menial.  Be  what  you  will,  but  not  that.  It  goes 
against  me  to  consent." 

"  It  is  not  your  consent  I  ask,  but  your  assistance,"  she  said, 
quickly;  then  fearing  she  had  wounded  him,  for  she  thought  she 
saw  him  wince  at  the  brusqueness  of  her  words:  "What  else  can 
I  do  ?  For  a  governess  I  would  require  recommendations — refer- 
ences; and  even  if  I  succeeded  in  obtaining  such  a  situation  without 
them,  I  would  live  in  hourly  dread  of  detection.  T  have  been  told 
that  my  voice  could  make  my  fortune;  but  even  supposing  such  an 
assertion  to  have  been  more  than  mere  flattery,  what  concealment 
on  the  public  stage?  There  is  much  work  to  be  done  in  the  world, 
but  none  other  than  what  I  suggest,  that  I  am  in  a  position  to  seek 
or  accept,  or  am  competent  to  perform.  There  is  no  alternative,  and 
I  must  accept  the  only  mode  of  living  that  is  open  to  me." 

"My  dear  child,  there  is  one  alternative — you  can  marry." 

"Marry!"  she  exclaimed  in  utter  amazement;  "and  whom, 
pray?" 

He  had  paused  in  his  walk  directly  before  her,  and  stood  looking 
over  her  head  into  the  waters  of  the  English  Channel,  far  beyond. 

"  I  told  you  the  story  of  my  life  with  a  purpose.  I  thought  that 
it  was  not  right  that  a  young  girl  should  be  cast  adrift  upon  the 
world,  and  when  once  you  knew  me  as  I  was,  I  determined  to  offer 


BEHIND  THE  ARRAS.  139 

you  a  home.  I  cannot  say  that  I  love  you;  but  I  do  like  you — like 
you  very  much;  and  if  in  a  few  months  time  you  are  still  of  the 
same  mind  in  regard  to  the  Egertons,  and  are  devoid  of  feelings  of 
repugnance  toward  me,  a  home  is  open  to  you,  and  I  ask  you  to  be 
my  wife;"  then  lowering  his  eyes  for  the  first  time  to  her  face,  where 
varied  emotions  were  so  rapidly  changing  its  expression  that  he  tried 
in  vain  to  detect  which  held  the  strongest  place,  he  went  on  without 
waiting  for  a  reply:  "  You  no  doubt  think  me  a  very  queer  fellow, 
to  be  making  such  a  proposal  at  such  a  time,  and  on  our  short  ac- 
quaintance; but  one  must  use  extraordinary  measures  in  an  extreme 
case.  I  have  little  doubt  that  in  time  this  affair  of  yours  will  come 
all  right;  but  if  by  any  chance  it  should  not,  and  you  remain  de- 
pendent upon  your  own  exertions,  the  best  possible  thing  you  can 
do  is  to  accept  a  home  from  me.  I  have  no  one  to  care  for  in  the 
world,  and  I  will  spend  my  life  in  trying  to  make  you  happy;  and 
in  doing  so  will  find  happiness  myself.  I  do  not  want  you  to  an- 
swer me  now,  for  you  may  not  at  present  see  clearly  the  merits  and 
demerits  of  my  proposition,  as  I  wish  you  to  do;  but  a  few  months 
hence,  leaving  sufficient  time  for  everything  to  take  place  that  is 
likely  to  happen,  you  can  tell  me  '  yea'  or  '  nay.'  And  now,  will 
you  allow  me  to  inquire  into  the  state  of  your  finances?'* 

"  Fifty  pounds,  minus  my  traveling  expenses  up  to  the  present 
time,"  she  answered,  grateful  that  he  did  not  ask  her  to  speak  on  the 
other  subject  he  had  just  left.  She  could  not  have  done  so  then- 
she  knew  not  how. 

"  And  will  you  not  permit  me  to  assist " 

"  No,  no,"  she  interrupted;  "  it  is  enough  to  support  me  until  I 
can  earn  more." 

"  But  if  you  should  by  any  chance  require  help  in  this  way,  you 
will  allow  me  the  pleasure  of  being  useful  ?  " 

"  I  hope  and  trust  the  necessity  may  never  arise;  but  if  it  should, 
I  promise  to  apply  to  you." 

"  Thank  you,"  he  said  as  heartily  as  though  she  had  granted  him 
some  great  boon.  "  Had  you  not  better  cross  over  to  Boulogne  to- 
day ? "  he  added:  "  I  will  join  you  in  Paris,  for  I  must  run  home  to 
show  the  servants  that  I  have  not  been  kidnapped  or  otherwise  made 
away  with,  as  my  sudden  and  unaccountable  disappearance  might 
lead  them  to  suppose;  and  more  important  still — I  want  to  get  a 
change  of  clothes.  I  might  telegraph  to  have  them  sent  to  me,  it  is 
true,  and  that  would  show  that  I  was  alive  besides,  but  I  really 
think  it  best  that  you  should  continue  your  journey  alone.  Should 
all  come  right  again,  it  will  be  better  for  you,  believe  me,  than  if  it 
were  known  that  I  was  with  you  all  the  time.  I  will  see  you  off,  of 


BEHIND   THE  ARRAS. 

course,  but  we  must  first  find  out  when  the  boat  leaves,"  and  he  started 
for  the  bell-rope.  "  Oh,  the  very  thing!  here's  a  Bradshaw  on  the 
chimney-piece.  This  is  a  wonderfully  well-appointed  place  of  en- 
tainment  for  man  and  beast,  I  must  say:  two  capital  chimney  orna- 
ments, a  clock — a  clock  that  strikes,  and  a  Bradshaw.  Now,  let's  see. 
South  Eastern  Railway,  page  326;  here  it  is:  ' London  and  Paris  in 
10  hours,  Thursday,  October  4th,  Tidal  Express  leaves  Charing 
Cross  and  Cannon  street,  1 :  25  p.  M.  Folkestone,  3:50' — we  have 
abundance  of  time — '  arrive  in  Paris  11:30.'  That's  rather  late,  I'm 
afraid;  but  you  can  drive  directly  to  the  Magnifique  in  the  Italiens 
— the  best  hotel  is  the  safest.  Are  you  afraid  to  travel  alone  ?  " 

"  If  I  were,  I  should  not  be  so  far  on  my  way  already.  Have  no 
anxiety,  pray,  in  that  respect." 

"I  am  glad  you  have  so  much  confidence  in  yourself,"  he  said, 
closing  the  book  and  putting  it  back  in  its  place  beside  the  clock; 
"for  I  confess  to  having  felt  decidedly  nervous  myself  at  letting 
you  cross  the  Channel  and  go  on  to  Paris  alone.  I  must  remain 
here  till  to-morrow." 

"Why?" 

"A  very  good  reason,  my  friend.  When  I  went  out  shooting  yes- 
terday morning,  as  a  matter  of  course,  I  had  not  the  faintest  idea 
that  I  was  starting  on  a  journey  to  Folkestone,  and  had  but  a  small 
sum  of  money  in  my  pocket;  luckily,  enough  to  carry  me  as  far  as 
this,  for  I  traveled  third-class  when  I  found  the  farmers  in  your  car- 
riage. I  can't  very  well  leave  here,  you  know,  without  paying  my 
bill;  for  they  don't  know  me,  and  my  style  of  dress,  you  will  con- 
fess, is  not  exactly  the  thing  to  inspire  confidence  in  a  landlord's 
breast.  I  would  telegraph  to  my  bankers  in  London  for  a  small 
draft,  but  for  the  very  same  reason — I  don't  know  a  soul  in  the 
place  who  would  or  could  identify  me.  If  it  was  known  that  I  was 
here,  it  would,  of  course,  be  all  right;  but  in  transactions  of  a  mon- 
etary character  the  British  banker  is  a  very  careful  animal.  So  the 
only  thing  I  can  do  is  to  write,  for  happily  they  know  my  signature, 
and  wait  for  the  return  post.  I'm  blessed,"  and  he  emptied  the 
contents  of  his  waistcoat  pockets  on  the  table,  "  if  eighteen  pence 
three  farthings  is  not  the  sum  total  of  my  present  cash  on  hand  !"- 

"  This  is  most  unkind,  Mr.  Tufnell,"  Lucy  said  in  a  hurt  tone; 
"  you  shower  kindnesses  upon  me,  and  yet  will  not  give  me  the 
pleasure  of  making  even  a  poor  return.  You  will  not  condescend 
to  borrow  from  me  to  whom  you  would  offer  your  bounty." 

As  she  spoke,  she  drew  forth  her  purse  and  placed  it  in  his  hand. 
Silently  he  took  a  sovereign,  and  returned  the  rest,  his  man's  heart, 
no  doubt  rebelling  at  receiving  assistance  of  such  a  kind  from  a 


BEHIND   THE  ARRAS.  141 

woman,  yet  his  gentleman's  nature  forbidding  him  to  pain  her  by  a 
refusal. 

"  I  will  meet  you  in  Paris  in  two  days  at  latest,"  he  said,  as  a  few 
hours  later  they  stood  together  on  the  deck  of  the  Boulogne  steamer, 
amid  the  throng  of  passengers  just  come  down  by  the  "  Tidal"  from 
London.  "In  the  meantime  you  can  be  on  the  lookout  for  your 
'lady  of  rank;'  but  if  you  do  not  succeed  in  finding  one  desirous 
of  your  services,  I  must  once  more  come  to  the  rescue;  that  is,  if 
you  will  still  accept  my  humble  assistance.  There  goes  the  last 
bell,  and  they  are  drawing  in  the  gangway  bridges,  so  I  must  go 
ashore.  I  won't  say  good-bye,  but  au  revoir." 

And,  as  the  mooring-lines  were  being  cast  off,  and  the  paddles 
were  beginning  to  turn,  he  gained  the  pier,  leaving  Lucy  looking 
wistfully  over  the  rail — the  old  sense  of  loneliness  gathering  about 
her  heart  and  dimming  her  eyes,  now  that  she  was  again  alone,  and 
the  one  true,  honest-hearted  friend  who  had  shed  the  only  ray  of 
sunshine  upon  her  past  week  of  sorrow,  and  lifted  so  much  of  the 
weight  from  her  heart,  gone  from  her  side. 

Tufnell  stood  on  the  end  of  the  pier  and  watched  the  steamer 
till  it  was  but  a  speck  in  the  offing,  and  its  black  smoke  a  mere  blur 
against  the  distant  sky;  and  then,  after  wiping  away  with  his  red  silk 
pocket-handkerchief  a  haze  which  had  gathered  upon  his  spectacles, 
he  lighted  his  short  clay  pipe,  stuck  his  hands  into  his  pockets,  and 
walked  slowly  back  to  the  hotel. 


CHAPTER  XII. 

Honest  labor  bears  a  lovely  face. 

—  •'  Patient  Grissel "  :  Act  I,  Scene  1. 

UCY,  registered  as  "  Mrs.  Whym,  England,"  had  arrived  at 
the  Hotel  Magnifique,  Boulevard  des  Italiens,  Paris. 

The  coming  of  a  plainly-dressed  English  "  Mrs."  thus  unes- 
'  *  corted,  unattended,  and  luggageless  to  the  fashionable  French 
hotel,  happily  for  her,  did  not  excite  the  remark  or  attract  the  at- 
tention it  would  have  done  in  conventional,  straightlaced  old  Eng- 
land; for  so  long  as  her  manners  and  address  appeared  to  be  those 
of  a  lady,  and  she  gave  other  and  more  tangible  and  satisfactory 
evidence  of  the  possession  of  means  wherewith  to  meet  whatever  ex- 
penses she  might  incur  while  she  remained  under  his  roof,  the 
voluble  and  volatile  landlord  troubled  not  his  head,  if  she  had 
chosen  to  leave  her  husband  or  her  maid  at  home,  or  had  seen  fit 


142  BEHIND  THE  ARRAS. 

to  travel  abroad  with  no  articles  of  raiment  or  personal  adornment, 
beside  those  she  wore,  than  what  might  be  contained  within  the  nar- 
row limits  of  a  small  black  leather  traveling-bag.  As  for  the  people 
stopping  at  the  hotel,  nothing  surprises  a  Frenchman;  the  English 
guests  regarded  a  thing  that  might  have  surprised ,  or  even  shocked 
their  ideas  of  propriety  at  home,  as  unworthy  of  note  in  Paris;  and 
the  Americans  "minded  their  own  business." 

The  rough  passage  across  the  channel;  the  reaction  from  the 
excitement  of  traveling  for  the  first  time  in  a  strange  country 
unattended;  the  depressing  influence  of  the  feeling  that  she 
was  alone  in  a  strange  city,  where  even  the  blind  beggar  in  the 
street  had  a  companion  in  his  dog,  and  every  one  of  the  throng  fill- 
ing its  gay  thoroughfares,  appeared  to  act  in  concert  with  some- 
body else,  while  she  remained  solitary  among  them  all,  made  her 
feel  miserable  and  sick  at  heart.  To  one  who  had  always  been  an 
object  of  solicitude,  this  sensation  of  being  "  one  apart"  was  inex- 
pressibly painful.  For  what  more  utterly  dispiriting  to  any  one, 
than  the  enforced  consciousness  that  with  those  one  is  thrown 
amongst  one  has  nothing  in  common,  except  it  be  the  belief  that 
from  henceforth  and  forever  it  is  to  be  thus. 

Are  there  not  times  when  there  seems  to  fall  upon  all  nature  a  dark, 
disfiguring  pall;  when  all  things  lose  their  charm;  when  there  appears 
to  be  nothing  worth  living  for,  nothing  to  keep  one  plodding  on 
through  this  dreary,  dreary  world  ?  The  mind  grows  weary,  and  the 
soul  asserts  itself  and  calls  for  something  nobler,  more  satisfying — far, 
far  beyond  this  monotonous  every-day  life.  A  mere  trifle,  a  word, 
a  glance  unkind,  the  book  we  have  been  reading,  the  first  view  of 
some  grand  scene — any  of  these,  trivial  in  themselves,  may  on  a  sud- 
den cast  a  spell  upon  what  before  had  given  greatest  delight,  till  in 
a  moment  it  dwindles  into  nothingness,  and  dark  dissatisfaction, 
with  all  that  was,  or  is,  or  may  be,  usurps  the  place  of  light.  We 
feel  that— 

"It  is  not  all  of  life  to  live,  nor  all  of  death  to  die." 

We  cannot  resist,  we  cannot  conquer  the  shade  that  falls  upon 
our  heart;  strive  as  we  may,  the  spell  still  holds  us  slaves,  until  re- 
laxing of  itself,  the  human  instincts  spring  into  place  once  more. 

Lucy  was  under  this  strange  influence,  and  her  courage  sank;  and 
though  blame  her  we  must  for  the  unacknowledged  pride  which  had 
brought  her  to  this  pass,  yet  pity  her  we  can  for  the  pain  that  she 
suffered. 

Bright,  therefore,  was  the  sunshine  that  Jolliffe  Tufnell  brought 
with  him,  when,  resplendent  in  a  blue  frock  coat,  pearl  gray  trousers, 


BEHIND   THE  ARRAS.  143 

and  a  tall  bat,  he  came  at  last;  for  it  dispelled  the  gloom  which  op- 
pressed her. 

It  was  only  his  good-humored  smile,  his  cheery  words  and  odd 
ways,  but  sunshine  it  was  to  her,  and  once  more  she  took  heart,  and 
looked  forward  with  firmness  and  courage.  Was  she  already  unfaith- 
ful to  her  first  love  ?  She  put  the  question  to  herself,  and  the  an- 
swer came  back:  "Not  so.  I  fear  lvalue  the  mere  human  pres- 
ence more  than  the  man,  good  and  kind  though  he  has  been  to  me." 

When  no  pleasing  visions  come  to  beguile  our  hours  of  loneli- 
ness, but  crowding  thoughts  of  unhappiness  harass  the  mind,  a 
human  presence  then  seems  all  in  all;  unless  it  be  that  we  have 
reached  that  morbid  state,  when  brooding  on  our  sorrows  gives  us 
something  akin  to  pleasure.  Lucy,  fortunately,  had  not  reached 
the  latter  state;  hers  was  a  nature  which  though  it  could  of  neces- 
sity stand  alone,  yet  craved  human  sympathy  and  protection. 

Almost  his  first  question  was  about  the  "  lady  of  rank." 

She  had  been  too  far  from  well  both  in  body  and  in  mind,  Lucy 
told  him,  to  make  any  inquiries  as  yet,  but  at  once  she  would  set 
about  doing  so. 

"You,  a  lady,  stopping  at  this  swell  hotel,"  he  said,  "cannot 
step  directly  from  such  a  position  into  the  character  of  a  lady's 
maid.  The  fact,  too,  that  you  were  staying  here,  if  known  to  those 
from  whom  you  might  seek  employment,  would  be  apt,  at  least,  to 
excite  suspicion  as  to  your  true  character,  and  be  almost  certain  to 
prevent  the  very  result  you  wish  to  accomplish.  I  thought  it  safer 
for  you  to  come  here  at  first  when  you  were  alone  and  unprotected, 
but  I  only  intended  that  you  should  remain  until  I  could  join  you 
again.  What  you  must  do  now,  is  to  take  lodgings,  change  your 
name  again,  and  prepare  some  suitable  clothing.  The  lodgings, 
you  yourself  must  find,  for,  of  course,  I  must  not  be  seen  or  known 
in  the  matter.  A  young  woman  in  the  station  you  are  to  occupy, 
has,  or  should  have,  no  gentlemen  friends.  The  sooner  you  can  get 
away  from  here  the  better,  for,  if  there  was  no  other  reason,  it  is 
confoundedly  expensive." 

He  watched  her  narrowly  as  he  spoke,  with  the  hope  that  now  it 
had  come  to  the  final  point  of  really  sacrificing  her  position,  that 
her  courage  and  determination  would  forsake  her. 

"  And  am  I  no  longer  to  have  the  benefit  of  your  advice?"  she 
asked  anxiously,  but  with  no  sign  that  could  be  construed  into 
wavering  from  her  purpose. 

"  We  can  write,"  he  answered,  laconically. 

So  it  was  settled,  and  Lucy  with  little  difficulty  found  humble 
lodgings  in  the  neighborhood  of  the  Faubourg  Montniartre.  There 


144  BEHIND   THE  AERAS. 

she  remained  five  days  without  seeing-  or  hearing  from  Tufnell;  and 
the  sense  of  loneliness  that  had  again  come  upon  her,  was  less  pain- 
fully felt,  as  her  mind  was  occupied  by  work  which  kept  her  inex- 
perienced fingers  busy.  Not  quite  new  to  such  work  however,  they 
were  also  ready,  supple  fingers,  guided  by  an  ingenious  brain,  and 
at  the  end  of  these  five  days  her  maid's  slender  wardrobe  was  com- 
pleted. The  other  lodgers  whom  she  met  on  the  stairs  as  she  went 
to  and  from  her  meals,  knew  she  was  English,  in  spite  of  her  per- 
fect accent;  and  having  apparently  had  some  experience  of  the  cold- 
ness and  reserve  of  her  nation,  from  other  Britishers  with  whom 
they  had  come  in  contact,  beyond  a  "  bon  jour,  madame,"  or  "  apres 
vous,  mamselle,"  left  her  to  herself.  She  was  not  sorry,  for  it  freed 
her  from  the  annoyance  of  idle  questions,  idly  asked.  In  busy  sol- 
itude, therefore,  she  passed  the  time  away,  only  going  out  for  her 
modest  dinner,  and  simple  breakfast,  to  a  quiet  little  restaurant  in 
the  next  street.  On  the  morning  of  the  fifth  day,  as  she  was  re- 
turning from  the  latter  meal,  the  concierge  put  into  her  hand  a  letter 
addressed  to  "  Miss  Sullivan."  She  opened  it  quickly,  and  read: 

"My  DEAR  CHILD: 

"  I  was  thinking  of  the  advisability  of  advertising  for  a  place  for 
you  in  a  French  family,  when  by  the  luckiest  chance,  I  found  what 
I  doubted — -with  reason — if  you  would  ever  find;  viz:  just  the  place 
you  want.  The  Amtenhursts  (Earl,  Countess  and  niece)  are  here, 
arrived  yesterday,  en  route  for  Italy,  and  last  night  while  passing 
through  the  hall  I  met  Lord  A.  who  took  me  to  their  rooms.  "We 
were  talking  together  when  Miss  Courtenay  (the  niece)  came  into 
the  room,  and  informed  her  ladyship  that  '  Jones  was  no  better  and 
refused  to  go  with  them  any  farther,  considering  her  illness  a  bad 
omen/  No  more  was  said  on  the  subject,  but  my  head  running  on 
ladies'  maids,  I  began  to  wonder  if  this  Jones  could  be  one,  and 
then  an  idea  struck  me.  I  questioned  a  chambermaid,  who  no  doubt 
puts  me  down  as  infatuated  with  Miss  Courtenay — misguided  creat- 
ure! (that  is,  the  chambermaid)  and  this  is  the"  result  of  my  in- 
quiries. Jones  is  a  lady's  maid— Lady  Amtenhurst's  own;  has  been 
taken  suddenly  sick,  and  refuses  to  go  a  step  farther.  They  are 
traveling  with  no  other  servants  but  a  French  courier,  so  I  would 
advise  you  to  apply  for  the  place,  its  advantages  being  that  travel- 
ing will  do  your  mind  good;  in  an  English  family  you  will  feel  more 
at  home  than  in  a  French  one;  they  do  not  know  the  Egertons; 
Lady  A.  is  a  kind  good  woman;  and  you  will  not  have  to  mix  with 
servants.  Come  as  soon  as  you  get  this — say  you  heard  she  wanted 
a  maid,  and  refer  her  to  me  for  a  character  or  any  necessary  recom- 
mendations. A  man  does  not  generally  know  much  about  it  I  sup- 
pose (I'm  blessed  if  I  do)  but  never  mind,  111  manage  to  make  it  all 
right  for  you,  if  you  will  trust. 

"Yours  sincerely, 

"JOLLLFFE  TUFNELL." 


BEHIND   THE  ARRAS.  145 

One  hour  later  Lady  Amtenhurst  was  sitting  alone  in  one  of  their 
appartement  an  premier  at  the  Hotel  Magnifique,  when  a  plainly- 
dressed  woman  was  ushered  into  the  room. 

"  What  is  it  you  would  speak  to  me  about,  my  good  woman  ?" 
her  ladyship  asked  as  the  other  stood  silent  and  embarrassed. 

"  I  heard,  my  Lady,  that  you  were  looking  for  a  maid,"  and  the 
voice  trembled  slightly. 

"  Not  exactly  that.  My  present  maid  is  sick  and  I  fear  will  be 
unable  to  remain  with  me;  still  I  had  not  yet  thought  of  filling  her 
place.  But  sit  down:  you  will  be  tired  standing." 

There  was  something  in  the  tone  of  her  voice  that  gave  a  kindli- 
ness to  the  words,  in  themselves  but  commonplace,  and  caused  Lucy 
— for  it  was  she — to  put  aside  her  veil,  as  she  sat  down." 

"  I  have  even  thought  seriously,"  her  ladyship  went  on,  "  of  con- 
tinuing our  journey  without  one."  An  unmistakable  shade  of  dis- 
appointment crossed  the  face  she  was  scrutinizing,  and  she  asked: 
"  Is  it  for  yourself  you  want  the  situation  ?  " 

"Yes,  my  lady." 

' '  You  are  young  to  have  much  experience,  and  you  seem  above 
the  position." 

The  color  rose  painfully  in  that  sad  young  face  as  Lady  Amten- 
hurst waited  for  an  answer  to  her  half  interrogator}?-,  half  assertion. 

"  I  was  educated  above  my  station,  it  is  true,  and  with  no  thought 
that  I  should  ever  work  for  my  daily  bread,  but — but  I  assure  you, 
my  lady,  that  I  was  born  of  very  humble  parents." 

The  look  of  wistfulness  and  truth  in  the  soft  black  eyes,  changed 
the  other's  glance  of  keen  scrutiny  into  one  of  compassion. 

"  Poor  girl;  and  after  your  mind  having  been  elevated  and  given 
a  taste  beyond  your  sphere,  you  are  now  compelled  to  earn  your 
bread.  I  was  right,  then,  in  supposing  you  had  little  experience; 
and  much  as  I  like  your  appearance,  I  am  afraid  you  would  not  suit 
me.  I  want  a  woman  thoroughly  competent  to  take  all  trouble  off 
my  hands  in  traveling." 

"  I  am  not  so  ignorant  as  you  think,  my  lady." 
"Were  you  ever  in  service  before?   I  thought  this  was  your  first 
trial." 

A  moment  Lucy  paused  before  she  answered,  to  ask  herself  if  it 
were  wrong,  in  speaking  the  truth  to  imply  what  was  false  ?  Her 
intention  was  not  to  injure  or  defraud  any  one;  she  felt  herself  cap- 
able of  performing  all  that  would  be  required  of  her;  if  she  let  this 
place  slip  through  her  fingers,  would  not  the  same  question  be 
asked  by  others  ?  and  she  knew  of  no  other  way  in  which  to  earn 
her  bread.  It  was  one  of  the  necessary  evils  of  the  course  she  had 
10 


BEHIND  THE  ARRAS. 

cbosen,  and  adopting  for  the  time  being  the  doctrine  that  "  the  end 
justifies  the  means,"  though  it  went  sorely  against  her  conscience, 
she  answered: 

"  I  lived  in  one  family  several  years." 

"Their  name?" 

"Egerton,  my  lady." 

"Egerton — Egerton.  Have  I  not  heard  that  name  lately?" 
mused  Lady  Amtenhurst.  "  What  was  it  I  heard  in  connection 
with  the  name?  Oh,  yes;  I  remember  now:  a  daughter  eloped  or 
ran  away  with  somebody.  Are  these  the  same  people?" 

"Yes,  my  lady/'  and  the  tell-tale  blood  bathed  her  cheeks. 

"  Unnatural  girl  to  run  away  from  her  father  and  mother.  Were 
you  with  them  at  the  time  ?" 

"  Yes,  my  lady/' 

"Why  did  you  leave  them?"  and  her  ladyship's  eyes  were  once 
more  keen  and  watchful. 

It  was  evident  that  she  was  imperfectly  acquainted  with  the  story 
of  Lucy's  disappearance,  and  it  was  not  likely  that  she  would  sus- 
pect this  applicant  for  a  situation  as  her  maid,  to  be  the  runaway 
daughter  of  the  Egertons;  but  to  remove  any  doubts  that  might  by 
chance  have  entered  her  mind,  Lucy  determined  to  make  a  bold 
stroke,  and  still  adhering  to  the  dubious  maxim  she  had  resolved  to 
be  governed  by,  tell  what  was  true,  yet  so  word  it  that  a  very  dif- 
ferent conclusion  from  the  actual  fact  would  be  drawn. 

"  I  left  them  when  the  young  lady  did;  and  because,  my  lady,  it 
was  with  my  assistance  that  Miss  Egerton  escaped.  Without  my 
help  she  could  not  have  done  it." 

"  Oh,  indeed!    You  are  a  frank  young  woman,  to  tell  me  this." 

"  I  tell  you  because  I  feel  convinced  that,  had  you  been  in  my  po- 
sition, your  ladyship  would  have  acted  in  the  same  way.  Oh,  my 
lady!  if  you  could  have  known  the  poor  thing's  sufferings,  being  in 
my  place,  you  would  have  done  as  I  did."  She  paused  abruptly, 
conscious  that  her  feelings  were  carrying  her  away  from  her  assumed 
character. 

"  But  are  you  not  sorry  for  it  now?  Would  you  not  undo  your 
work  ?" 

"No,  my  lady,"  she  answered,  looking  up  steadily.  "I  acted 
truly  by  her  who  was  my  mistress.  She  was  the  one  to  decide  for 
herself  between  right  and  wrong — not  a  poor  servant." 

"  But  you  are  not  an  ignorant  menial  to  serve  as  a  tool  in  other 
people's  hands.  Your  appearance,  your  language,  everything  is 
above  your  position,  and  you  should  have  used  the  discretion  given 
you  by  Providence." 


BEHIND   THE  ARRAS.  147 

"  Perhaps  so,  my  lady,  but,"  with  a  sigh,  "  I  acted  according  to 
my  lights." 

"And  you  expect  me  to  take  you  into  my  service  after  this  con- 
fession ?" 

"  My  lady,  if  I  have  been  true  to  one,  does  it  not  follow  that  I 
can  be  true  to  another  ?  If  you  take  me  into  your  service  I  will  be 
true  to  you  till  death." 

She  did  not  know  what  a  powerful  pleader  was  the  sad  sweet  look 
which  met  the  searching  gaze  fixed  upon  her. 

Lady  Amtenhurst  rose  quickly,  and  took  a  few  steps  to  the  centre- 
table,  and  resting  her  hand  upon  it,  stood  in  thought.  As  quickly 
she  turned  again,  and  came  back  to  Lucy,  who  had  risen. 

"  I  know  not  what  possesses  me,"  she  said  with  a  puzzled  look. 
"  Had  another  woman  spoken  as  you  have  done,  I  should  have  rung 
and  had  her  turned  from  the  room.  Were  you  discharged  when  your 
young  mistress  was  missed,  or  did  you  leave  with  her?" 

"  I  left  with  her,  my  lady." 

"Where,  then,  is  she  now?" 

"  I  cannot  tell  your  ladyship." 

"And  why  did  the  silly  girl  leave  her  home  ?" 

"  That  is  her  secret,  my  lady.  Were  it  in  my  possession,  I  am 
sure  your  ladyship  would  not  have  me  tell  it." 

"Will  you  not  try  to  induce  her  to  return ?'' 

"It  is  not  my  place  to  advise,  but  to  serve,  my  lady.  I  have 
done  that  which  I  thought  right,  and  I  must  go  through  with  it  to 
the  end;"  and  sad  was  her  voice,  as  with  something  of  disquiet,  she 
thought  of  the  path  which  once  chosen,  she  must  now  follow. 

"  Edith!"  called  Lady  Amtenhurst. 

A  minute's  silence,  while  she  and  Lucy  stood  with  looks  bent 
upon  the  floor.  Then  the  door  of  an  adjoining  room  which  had 
been  ajar,  opened  wide,  and  a  small,  fair-haired  woman  entered. 

"  Did  you  call  me,  aunt?" 

"Yes,  Edith,  come  here." 

As  she  came  forward,  staring  somewhat  rudely  at  the  stranger, 
Lady  Amtenhurst  drew  her  arm  within  her  own,  and  led  her  to  the 
window.  Her  ladyship  spoke  in  a  low  voice,  and  then  her  com- 
panion left  her  side,  and  going  to  the  table  for  a  photograph  al- 
bum, her  eyes  rested  upon  Lucy,  as  she  passed  back  with  it  to  the 
window. 

"A  remarkable  face!"  she  audibly  whispered;  "  not  by  any  means 
remarkable,  auntie.  A  very  ordinary  face,  I  call  it;  if  not  posi- 
tively ugly.  I  would  strongly  advise  you  to  take  her.  Jones  posi- 
tively refuses  to  go  on,  and  where  else  shall  we  find  another?  and 
I  want  so  much  to  leave  here  to-morrow." 


148  BEHIND  THE  ARRAS, 

Her  aunt  said  something  about  "  going  without  one,"  at  which 
Edith  pouted  and  jerked  her  shoulders. 

" Impossible,  auntie!"  she  exclaimed,  leaving  the  window.  "I 
could  never  manage  to  get  on  without  a  maid,  whatever  you  might 
do.  Do  you  know  how  to  dress  hair,  young  woman  ?"  to  Lucy. 

It  was  something  she  had  always  had  a  fancy  for,  and  now  she 
could  honestly  answer: 

"Yes,  Miss." 

' '  And  you  know  all  about  dressing  one  for  parties,  and  altering 
dresses,  and  packing,  and  all  that  sort  of  thing  ?" 

Not  quite  pleased  with  her  new  interlocutor,  Lucy  replied : 

"  I  can  do  all  that  may  be  required  of  a  lady's  maid,  Miss." 

"We  want  to  leave  Paris  to-morrow,  so  this  afternoon  would  be 
the  best  time  for  you — " 

"  Come,  come,  Edith,  not  so  fast,  my  dear,"  interrupted  Lady 
Amtenhurst,  coming  forward  and  laying  her  hand  upon  her  niece's 
arm.  "  I  cannot  at  present  make  up  my  mind  whether  or  not  to  take 
this  young  person.  I  will  think  about  it,  and  let  you  know  to- 
night," to  Lucy.  "Do  not  form  any  hopes  that  I  will  engage  you, 
for  it  is  very  doubtful.  But  if  I  should,  can  you  be  ready  to  leave 
with  us  the  day  after  to-morrow  ?" 

"No,  no;  to-morrow,  ami  tie.3  ' 

"We  leave  Paris  the  day  after  to-morrow,"  said  her  ladyship, 
quietly  but  firmly;  and  Edith,  evidently  but  too  well  acquainted 
with  her  aunt's  quiet  firmness,  turned  away  with  a  gesture  of  ill- 
concealed  impatience. 

"I  can  go  any  day,  my  lady,"  said  Lucy. 

"  Your  address  ?" 

"27  Kue  Jacqueline." 

"And  name?" 

Promptly  came  the  word  "  Sullivan;"  although  prudence  was 
whispering,  "  She  may  know  more  of  this  story  some  day,  and  sus- 
pect the  truth."  But  conscience  answering,  "You  have  imposed 
upon  this  kind  woman  enough — mislead  her  no  further,"  conquered 
prudence,  and  she  repeated: 

"  Sullivan,  my  lady." 

She  left  the  hotel,  and  walking  rapidly  along  the  gay  Boulevard 
with  its  crowd  of  fashionable  promenaders,  brilliant  shops,  and 
handsome  equipages,  turned  into  the  Rue  Laffitte,  and  passing  on 
through  the  quieter  and  humbler  streets  of  the  Faubourg  Mont- 
martre,  reached  her  lodgings,  wondering  as  she  went  at  the  liking 
for  Lady  Amtenhurst  that  had  sprung  up  in  her  heart,  and  sur- 
prised, now  that  the  dreaded  interview  was  over,  at  the  courage  which 


BEHIND   THE  ARRAS.  149 

had  come  to  her  so  quickly  when  once  she  found  herself  in  the 
room  she  had  entered  with  such  nervous  anxiety,  scarcely  knowing 
what  she  should  say.  But  the  conviction  that  in  the  new  life  there 
would  be  hardly  less  deception  than  had  she  retained  a  position 
that  was  not  rightfully  hers,  forced  itself  upon  her,  and  did  not  fail 
to  alloy  with  fresh  misgivings,  the  hopes  she  had  been  indulging  of 
peace  and  rest  come  at  last. 


CHAPTER  XIII. 

The  leaves  of  memory  seemed  to  make 
A  mournful  rustling  in  the  dark. 

—  "  Fire  of  Drift- Wood." 

"T  was  that  hour  between  day  and  dark  when  the  world  slowly 
resigns  itself  to  night,  parting  reluctantly  with  the  last  lin- 
gering rays  of  light  which  break  the  fall  of  sudden  darkness. 
That  twilight  hour,  sad,  yet  not  melancholy,  when,  the 
present  all  forgotten,  past  moments  of  bliss  are  lived  again,  and  the 
future  rises  bright  and  beautiful;  when  thoughts  chime  in  of  joys 
long  passed  that  are  now  but  sweet  and  lingering  memories— 
thoughts  of  tranquil  happiness — thoughts  of  what  we  are  and  might 
be — of  what  we  are  not — of  what  we  would  be — thoughts  of  loved 
and  lost  ones — thoughts  of  loved  ones  not  yet  ours — of  what  might 
be,  of  what  can  never  be;  thoughts  of  an  ideal  perfect  world  as  we 
would  have  it,  but  can  never  know  except  in  dreams;  so  that  when 
the  hour  is  passed  and  gone,  and  we  realize  that  life  and  dreams  are 
not  as  one,  life  by  contrast  loses  half  its  charm.  Exquisitely  happy 
and  doubly  precious  because  so  rare,  are  some  moments  in  life,  but 
in  their  reality  worth  far  more  than  those  we  dream.  If  thou  wouldst 
find  them,  oh,  reader,  and  feel  their  true  value,  beware  of  thoughts 
which  crowd  into  that  little  hour,  when  day  departing,  in  gentle- 
ness gives  way  to  coming  night. 

When  twilight  fell  upon  Paris  that  early  October  evening,  little 
of  its  beauty  found  its  way  to  the  humble  room  where  Lucy  sat. 
But  though  the  tall  surrounding  houses  shut  out  the  gorgeous  sight 
of  richly-tinted  clouds  in  fantastic  groupings,  above  where  the  God 
of  day  had  sunk  to  rest,  the  influence  of  the  hour  stole  softly  in,  and 
fell  upon  her  half  closed  eyelids. 

No  view  from  the  window,  no  fire  in  the  grate,  no  beauty  in  the 

room;  nothing  for  the  eyes  to  rest  upon  with  pleasure,  she  closed 

them  upon  the  outer  world,  and  looked  upon  the  inner.     Shadows 

of  by-gone  happy  times  gathered  round  her,  and  began  their  tale  of 

"Days  that  are  no  more," 


150  BEHIND  THE  ARRAS. 

while  the  stars  came  out  one  by  one,  and  the  night,  gradually  clos- 
ing in,  filled  the  room  with  its  darkness.  Then  in  interruption 
came  a  step  upon  the  stairs;  slowly  and  heavily  it  ascended  while  she 
waited  to  hear  it  pause  at  her  floor  and  go  to  one  of  the  other  rooms, 
or  keep  on  to  the  story  above,  that  she  might  resume  her  musing  in 
silence.  The  step  paused  when  it  reached  the  top  of  her  flight,  and 
then  she  heard  it  approaching  her  room.  Wondering  who  it  could 
be,  she  was  half  tempted  to  jump  up  and  lock  the  door,  when  a  tap- 
tap-tap  was  given  on  the  panel  outside. 

"  Oh,  it  is  the  concierge  with  the  letter  from  Lady  Amtenhurst," 
she  said,  reassured  by  the  thought,  as  she  hastily  struck  a  match 
and  lighted  her  lamp.  ' '  Entrez ! " 

The  door  was  thrown  open  wide,  revealing — not  the  slovenly  old 
concierge — but  a  strange,  dark  figure  in  the  shadow  without. 

"  Who  can  it  be?  "  she  thought;  "  a  messenger  from  her  ladyship, 
perhaps." 

Taking  up  the  lamp  in  order  to  discover  from  a  closer  inspection 
who  her  unknown  and  hesitating  visitor  might  be,  she  moved  to- 
ward the  doorway,  and  the  light  fell  upon  a  middle-sized  man, 
dressed  in  that  peculiar  loudness  of  style  which  always  betokens  the 
absence  of  taste,  if  not  of  gentility.  A  short  cutaway  coat,  buttoned 
so  as  to  show  an  expanse  of  yellow  waistcoat  below,  and  a  gaudy 
crimson  scarf  in  which  was  stuck  a  huge  horse-shoe  pin,  above; 
trousers  of  the  most  gigantic  check;  an  eye-glass  screwed  into  one 
eye;  a  small  cane  twirled  lightly  under  one  arm;  and,  to  crown  all, 
a  tall  white  hat  with  a  wide  black  band,  tilted  knowingly  over  one 
ear,  and  displaying  on  the  uncovered  side  of  the  head,  a  staring  crop 
of  bright  red  hair. 

Lucy  looked  a  moment  at  the  remarkable  figure,  in  inquiring 
doubt,  and  then  started  back  in  surprise. 

"Mr.  Tufnell!"  she  exclaimed. 

"The  same,"  he  answered. 

"  You  here!    Did  you  not  say — " 

"  That  you  were  not  made  for  this  life,"  he  interrupted.  "  But 
1  season  your  admiration  for  a  while/  as  Sir  Griffith  would  say,  and 
I  will  explain.  Put  on  your  things,  child/'  he  added,  as  he  entered 
and  shut  the  door  after  him,  "  and  come  out  for  a  walk.  Whew! 
what  an  atmosphere!  They  evidently  do  their  own  cooking  some- 
where on  this  floor — essence  of  garlic  predominant." 

"Have  you  anything  very  important  to  tell  me,  that  you  come 
here  to-night,  in  this  guise  ?"  she  asked,  smiling  in  spite  of  herself. 

"  Nothing;  except  that  I  gained  you  the  place  you  so  nearly  lost; 
that's  all.  I  am  glad  my  elaborate  toilet  amuses  you.  I  did  it  to 


BEHIND  THE  ARRAS.  151 

prevent  the  people  below,  and  those  I  might  meet  on  the  stairs, 
from  taking  me  for  a  gentleman.  I  am  not  a  very  elegant  specimen 
at  best,  and  I  tried  to  dress  myself  as  much  like  a  swell-mob  gent 
as  I  could.  These  yellow  gloves  and  flaming  scarf,  to  say  nothing 
of  this  Palais  Eoyal  watch-chain,  which  I  purchased  with  the  cane, 
'  for  this  occasion  only/  are  about  the  correct  things  in  that  line;  and 
as  I  spoke  the  very  worst  French  I  could  manage  to  utter — not  a 
very  difficult  task  for  me,  by-the-bye — to  the  concierge,  I  have  n't 
a  doubt  but  that  he  put  me  down  for  a  cad  of  the  first  water,  or 
whatever  the  French  for  that  animal  is.  Do  you  know  it's  been  aw- 
fully hard  lines  getting  this  beastly  glass  to  stick  in  its  place — but 
spectacles  would  have  spoiled  all,  and  I  had  to  have  something  of 
the  kind  to  keep  me  from  breaking  my  neck,  or  being  run  over  at 
every  street-crossing.  This  brute  of  a  cane,  too,  I  mean  to  throw 
away  after  to-night.  I  never  carried  a  walking-stick  in  my  life,  and 
I'm  too  old  to  begin,  or  rather,  more  properly  speaking,  not  old 
enough,  I  hope.  But  get  on  your  bonnet,  or  hat,  or  whatever  you 
call  it,  this  moment;  for  I  will  not  tell  you  another  thing  till  we  get 
out  of  this  hole  into  the  street." 

Lucy  straightway  obeyed,  and  ten  minutes  after  they  were  walk- 
ing arm-in-arm  in  the  quiet  streets  of  the  neighborhood — some  of 
the  quietest  in  the  gay  metropolis. 

"I  would  take  you  along  the  Boulevards,"  Tufnell  had  said,  as 
they  left  the  street  door,  "  but  they  are  too  bright  and  full  of  peo- 
ple, and  as  there  are  no  end  of  people,  I  find,  in  Paris  just  now, 
whom  I  happen  to  know,  some  one  would  be  certain  to  turn  up  who 
would  recognize  me,  for  all  my  caddish  get-up.  We  must  only  hope 
for  a  promenade  there  together  at  some  future  day  under  happier 
auspices,  and  content  ourselves  for  the  present  with — as  they  say  in 
America — *  a  walk  around  the  block.'  I  came  to  bid  you  good-bye/' 
he  continued,  as  they  walked  along,  and  looking  at  her  through  the 
inevitable  spectacles,  which  had  now  replaced  the  discarded  eye- 
glass. "  There  is  no  knowing  when  we  shall  meet  again;  for  who 
can  tell  what  will  be  the  next  freak  you  will  take  into  your  head." 

"Are  you  going  away?"  Lucy  asked. 

<{  It  is  you  who  are  going  away,  not  I,  child." 

"  I  ?"  she  exclaimed.  "  Why,  nothing  is  settled  with  Lady  Am- 
tenhurst." 

"I  beg  your  pardon,"  he  replied;  "everything  is  settled  in  that 
quarter,  and  you  leave  with  them  the  day  after  to-morrow." 

"  You  know  more  about  my  affairs,  it  seems,  than  I  do  myself," 
she  said,  smiling.  "  How  does  it  happen?" 

"  Why,  the  truth  is,  I  was  anxious  to  know  how  you  had  sue- 


152  BEHIND   THE  ARRAS. 

ceeded,  so  this  afternoon  I  ran  in  to  see  Lady  Amtenhurst  and  her 
niece.  I  suppose  you  know  I  have  the  reputation  of  being  very  odd, 
and  therefore  I  can  say  or  do  almost  anything,  and  people  only 
shake  their  heads  and  laugh.  Without  danger  of  exciting  sus- 
picion, I  asked  directly  who  was  the  woman  in  black  I  had  seen 
leaving  their  rooms  this  morning.  '  It  struck  me  I  had  seen  her 
face/  I  said,  '  somewhere  before,  but  my  memory  for  faces  was  truly 
wretched.' " 

"How  could  you?" 

' '  By-the-bye,  that  is  a  question  I  want  to  ask  you  presently.  But 
let  me  go  on,  please.  Miss  Courtenay  at  once  informed  me  that  it 
was  impossible  that  I  could  know  the  woman,  for  she  was  only  a 
servant."  A  flush  overspread  Lucy's  face.  "I  asked  her  if  she 
thought  I  had  never  seen  a  servant  whose  face  I  might  remember? 
*  Isn't  that  strange,'  she  said,  'Auntie  insists  that  it  is  a  remarkable 
face,  and  you  seem  taken  with  it,  while  for  my  part,  I  saw  nothing 
but  very  ordinary  flesh  and  blood.'  Thus  it  is  that  different  people 
regard  the  same  object.  Then  she  went  on  to  tell  me  in  her  usual 
confidential  manner— her  aunt  interrupting  ineffectually  to  say  I 
could  take  no  interest  in  their  domestic  concerns — that  they  could 
not  leave  until  they  had  secured  a  maid  in  place  of  the  sick  one, 
and  they  would  miss  some  people  they  wished  to  join  somewhere  if 
they  delayed  any  longer.  Here  had  this  English  woman  turned  up 
in  the  most  providential  manner,  and  '  Auntie '  did  not  want  to 
engage  her  because  she  had  assisted  some  girl  to  run  away  from 
home.  '  Just  as  though  I  was  likely  to  take  pattern  by  a  scatter- 
brained damsel,'  she  added,  '  and  leave  my  comfortable  home  with 
the  assistance  and  at  the  instigation  of  this  woman;  it's  too  absurd!' 

"  My  astonishment  at  this  information  must  have  been  visible  in 
my  face;  and  to  give  a  reason  for  it,  I  exclaimed,  '  Why,  the  face 
now  vaguely  connects  itself  with  a  story  I  have  heard!  What  was 
the  name  of  the  girl  who  absconded  ?'  '  You  know  her,  I  have  heard 
you  speak  of  her;'  replied  Miss  Courtenay,  'Lucy  Egerton.  By-the- 
bye,  what  sort  of  looking  girl  was  she?'  '  Quite  pretty,'  I  answered; 
'a  blonde;'  and  I  knew  that  a  vision  arose  before  them  both,  quite 
at  war  with  black  eyes,  even  should  the  idea  of  a  black  wig  come 
into  their  heads.  Then  she  went  on,  with  a  profusion  of  strongly 
emphasized  words :  'How  could  she  do  anything  that  would  cause 
public  talk  about  her!  Anything  like  publicity  would  kill  me,  I  know  ; 
for  1  have  one  of  those  sadly  sensitive  natures  that  shrink  at  the  least 
thought  of  notoriety.'  '  As  the  spider  at  a  touch  on  his  web,'  thought 
I,  mentally  supplying  a  simile.  While  she  was  dilating  on  the  beau- 
ties of  her  own  nature,  my  thoughts  were  busy  upon  the  nature  of 


BEHIND   THE  AREAS.  153 

your  communications  to  these  people,  and  too  much  occupied  to 
take  an  interest  in  this  extremely  sensitive  young  creature.  '  Oh,  I 
remember  it  all  now!'  I  exclaimed,  '  this  woman  was  — '  I  paused, 
quite  certain  that  Miss  Courtenay  would  supply  me  with  the  clue  I 
wanted;  and  she  did.  She  finished  my  sentence  for  me — '  Was 
Miss  Egerton's  maid/  she  said. 

"  And  now  while  I  think  of  it,  let  me  ask  you,  with  a  few  of  Miss 
Courtenay's  emphases,  that  question:  How  could  you  tell  such  a 
story?" 

"  I  told  no  story/'  cried  Lucy,  dropping  his  arm  with  an  indig- 
nant flush,  as  she  halted  abruptly.  "I  said  I  lived  with  the  Eger- 
tons  several  years,  which  was  true;  and  called  Miss  Egerton  my 
mistress.  Her  ladyship  found  her  own  meaning  in  my  words,  and 
I  did  not  take  the  trouble  to  explain  that  I  was  my  own  mistress. 
My  only  fault  was  in  speaking  of  Miss  Egerton,  when  no  such  per- 
son exists." 

"  And  you  call  it  no  fault  to  mislead  without  an  absolute  lie?"  he 
asked. 

"  We  will  not  argue  that  point,"  she  answered,  with  a  sigh,  "  for 
I  have  doubts  myself  that  might  lose  me  the  argument." 

"You  were  honest,  at  least,  in  giving  the  name  Sullivan;  as 
for  the  mistress  question,  it  strikes  me  that  the  events  of  the  past 
fortnight  have  pretty  clearly  demonstrated  that — if  you  will  excuse 
the  slang  for  the  sake  of  its  expressiveness — the  boot  is  on  the  other 
leg.  Miss  Sullivan  has,  I  think,  fairly  proven  herself  the  mistress 
of  Miss  Egerton.  But  come;  don't  let  us  stand  here  any  longer. 
I  have  not  half  finished  what  I  wanted  to  say;  at  all  events,  we  can 
select  a  more  secluded  spot,  not  so  near  a  gas  lamp,  if  you  insist. 
We  are  attracting  attention;  at  least,  I  am." 

She  silently  took  his  arm  again,  and  they  walked  on. 

"  Where  was  I  ?  Oh,  yes.  I  went  on  to  say,"  continued  Tufnell, 
"  that  this  woman,  this  maid,  was  greatly  prized  by  Lady  Egerton; 
even  Sir  Griffith  thought  her  a  treasure;  that  they  were  not  at  all 
surprised  at  her  having  served  their  daughter  so  faithfully.  Lady 
Anitenhurst  then  asked  me  what  induced  the  girl  to  leave  her 
home.  I  began  to  answer,  *  She  made  the  discovery  that—-'  when 
by  the  most  fortunate  chance,  Miss  Courtenay  interrupted,  saying: 
'  Just  think!  Sullivan  must  know  where  she  is,  and  won't  tell.'  At 
the  name  Sullivan  I  started,  and  asked,  '  Who?'  <  The  woman,  the 
maid,  her  name  is  Sullivan/  replied  Lady  Amtenhurst.  '  Ah/  I 
said,  not  knowing  exactly  what  else  to  say,  and  cutting  my  remark 
as  short  as  possible,  for  I  now  saw  that  the  wisest  thing  I  could  do 
was  to  give  them  no  information  whatever  on  the  subject,  not  know- 


154  BEHIND   THE  ARRAS. 

ing  how  it  might  tally  with  what  you  had  said.  I  eluded  all  further 
questioning  about  you,  the  young  lady;  but  the  praises  which  be- 
longed to  that  personage,  I  lavished  upon  you,  the  waiting-maid. 
My  grand  coup  was  this  little  sentence — the  last 'on  the  subject  be- 
fore I  took  my  leave.  '  I  am  sure  your  ladyship,  in  fact  I  am  posi- 
tively certain,  that  were  this  Sullivan  to  return  to  the  Egertons, 
they  would  receive  her  gladly  for  her  own  sake,  with  no  reproaches, 
and  freely  forgive  the  past/  You  see  the  spirit  of  your  prevarica- 
tions had  entered  me,  and  this  last  equivoque  was  effective.  '  I 
think  I  will  engage  her,'  said  Lady  Amtenhurst;  'and  in  that  case 
we  leave  here  the  day  after  to-morrow;  so  will  you  give  us  the 
pleasure  of  dining  with  us  to-morrow,  Mr.  Tufnell?'  I  accepted, 
went  to  a  theatrical  costumer  in  the  Hue  Lepelletier,  picked  out 
this  dress,  arrayed  myself  in  it  in  a  room  off  the  shop,  and  stole  out 
in  the  dusk  to  bid  you  farewell." 

"Are  you  not  surprised/' asked  Lucy,  "that  they  had  no  sus- 
picion whatever  of  the  truth?" 

"  I  should  have  been  more  surprised  if  they  had.  When  a  woman 
hears  of  a  girl  running  away  from  home,  she  does  not  look  for  her 
in  every  pretty  waiting-maid  who  may  thereafter  chance  to  be  in 
her  service,  though  she  will  expect  to  see  her  in  every  beggar  she 
meets  in  the  street.  If  one  were  reading  a  novel  in  which  the 
kitchen  scullery-maid  was  a  tolerably  good-looking  girl,  one  would 
set  her  down  at  once  as  the  heroine;  but  when  in  real  life,  a  lady 
dismisses  a  maid,  she  is  not  likely  to  suspect  every  one  who  applies 
for  the  place,  of  being  a  princess  in  disguise.  Oh,  no;  it  is  not  the 
fear  of  discovery  that  troubles  me;  but  the  thought  of  what  you 
may  have  to  endure;  not  from  Lady  Amtenhurst,  for  she  is  too  true 
a  lady  to  hurt  the  feelings  of  any  one;  but  of  that  affected  little 
piece  of  goods,  Miss  Courtenay,  I  have  my  doubts." 

"  Who  is  this  Miss  Courtenay  ?"  asked  Lucy. 

"  The  orphan  child  of  a  younger  brother  of  the  present  Earl,  who 
married  beneath  him.  Having  lost  their  only  daughter  when. an 
infant,  the  Amtenhursts  have  made  one  of  her,  and  she  affects  the 
airs  of  a  young  duchess,  without  the  graces,  I  am  sorry  to  say. 
Now  that  all  is  arranged,5*  he  continued,  "  my  conscience  begins  to 
prick.  If  I  had  left  you  to  yourself,  you  would  have  been  obliged 
to  return  in  the  long  run.  But  you  are  like  a  horse  that  has  got 
the  bit  between  his  teeth;  you  are  your  own  mistress,  and  nothing 
can  stop  you.  Nothing  was  to  be  done  but  to  guide  you  clear  of 
the  pitfalls." 

'  Without  your  aid,  I  don't  know  what  I  should  have  done,"  she 
answered  gratefully.     "  Do  not  regret  your  generosity.     What  you 


BEHIND  THE  AREAS.  155 

have  done  was  for  the  best,  and  believe  me,  you  will  find  it  so.  You 
do  not  know  all  I  have  suffered,  and  how  you  have  lessened  the 
pain.  I  felt  so  hardened  toward  all  mankind,  judging  all  by  a  few 
poor  examples,  when  you  came  to  prove  that  there  is  kindness  and 
goodness  in  the  world.  I  do  not  even  now  think  there  are  many 
like  you.  You  have  done  me  good  in  many  ways,  and  I  thank  you 
sincerely." 

"  Don't  say  any  more,  child/'  he  interrupted.  "  You  make  me 
happier  than  I  deserve  to  be.  May  the  event  prove  that  I  have  done 
right.  Will  you  not  allow  me  to  relieve  the  anxiety  of  your  friends 
by  telling  them  that  you  are  alive  and  well  ?" 

"Friends?"  she  said,  with  a  sudden  expression  of  pain;  "I  have 
none.  Every  one,  even  those  I  loved  best,  turned  from  me  in  the 
hour  of  trial.  What  anxiety  can  they  feel  who  care  not  for  me? 
No,  no,  Mr.  Tufnell,  not  a  word  to  them,  I  com — I  beg!" 

' '  Command  "  came  easiest,  but  she  chose  the  milder  word. 

"  Well,  well,"  he  said,  with  a  sigh;  "  be  it  so;  though  it  is  not  as 
I  would  wish.  Is  there  nothing  more  that  I  can  do  for  you  before 
you  go  ?" 


"Nothing,  thanks." 


"You  will  join  the  Amtenhurst's  to-morrow  morning,  so  we  are 
not  likely  to  meet  again  before  you  leave  Paris." 

They  were  approaching  the  lodging-house  now. 

"  Will  you  keep  me  acquainted  with  your  movements?" 

"If  you  wish  it — yes,"  she  said. 

"And  promise  me  one  thing,  child,"  he  added.  "Do  nothing 
rash;  go  off  on  no  tangents,  at  least,  without  letting  me  know  your 
purpose." 

"  This  is  the  last  romantic  act  of  my  life,"  she  answered,  giving 
him  her  hand  as  they  reached  the  doorstep;  "  all  the  future  is  to  be 
the  quiet,  uneventful  life  of  a  lady's  maid." 

"Not  with  one  of  your  disposition;  and  remember,  you  have 
Miss  Courtenay  to  please  as  well  as  her  aunt,  and  I  pity  you,  and 
doubt  your  success.  But  keep  your  temper,  child,  whatever  you  do. 
Just  one  thing  more  let  me  say  before  we  part."  He  took  both  her 
hands  now,  and  held  them  as  he  spoke.  "  You  remember  the  offer 
I  made  you?  Think  of  it,  and  three  months  hence  give  me  your 
answer.  Fate  may  frown,  life  may  prove  difficult;  whatever  hap- 
pens, do  not  forget  that  at  any  moment  you  can  end  it  all  by  one 
word  to  me.  Good-bye,  child;  God  bless  and  prosper  you." 

Before  she  could  speak,  he  had  dropped  her  hands,  and  his  dark 
figure  was  striding  down  the  street. 

A  moment  hesitating  she  stood;  the  next,  a  hand  was  on  his  arm, 
a  breathless  voice  in  his  ear: 


156  BEHIND  THE  ARRAS. 

"Mr.  Tufnell— I — I— give  you  leave— to  tell  one — on ly  one— Sir 
Griffith— that  I  am  safe— I  can  trust  you  to  tell  no  other.  Make 
Mm  promise  to  keep  it  a  secret  from  every  one— even  his  wife — she 
does  not  love  me  much." 

Then  Tufnell  in  his  turn  watched  a  figure  disappear  in  the  dark- 
ness, and  went  on  his  way,  saying  to  himself,  "  There  is  genuine 
goodness  in  her,  though  she  tries  her  best  to  hide  it." 

And  she,  as  she  paused  on  the  threshhold,  and  glanced  up  at  the 
sky,  fancied  that  the  stars  in  twinkling  expressed  a  gladness  for  the 
softening  of  her  heart. 

"  He  lost  a  son — he  has  lost  a  daughter,"  she  thought.  "  Is  not 
his  loss  even  greater  than  mine  ?  To  lose  one's  children  is  a  great 
trial,  but— O,  Alva!  Alva!" 


CHAPTER  XIV. 

There  is  a  letter  for  you,  sir. 

—  Hainlet;  Act  IV,  Scene  6. 

The  letter,  as  I  live,  with  all  the  business — 

—  Henry  VIII:  Act  III,  Scene  2. 

i  OLLIFFE  Tufnell  sat  over  his  toast  and  coffee  in  the  break- 
fast-room at  Knocklofty  Hall.  The  mail-bag  was  late  that 
December  morning  for  the  first  time  in  the  history  of  the 
London  and  Bratton  railway  line,  and  he  sat  minus  an  ex- 
pected letter  from  his  London  solicitors  who  had  the  investigation 
of  an  important  matter  for  him  in  their  hands — minus  his  Times, 
minus  his  Field,  for  it  was  Saturday;  and  while  he  munched  his 
toast  and  sipped  his  coffee,  he  looked  out  at  the  white,  snow-covered 
ground,  and  bare  leafless  trees  beneath  the  leaden  sky,  and  mused: 
"Two  months  and  not  a  line,  but  a  couple  of  brief  notes,  which 
might  as  well  have  been  telegrams,  from  their  remarkable  brevity. 
Can  it  be  possible  that  I  have  been  mistaken  in  her  ?  that  she  is — 
no,  I'll  not  think  it.  She  promised  to  write,  it's  true;  but,  poor 
child,  who  can  tell  how  her  every  moment  may  be  taken  up  ?  I 
must  not  forget  that  she  really  has  two  mistresses  to  serve,  and  one 
of  them — that  Courtenay  minx — would  alone  be  enough  to  employ  the 
time  of  two  maids  with  her  die-away  airs,  or  I  am  no  judge;  besides 
she  must  have  her  own  needs  to  attend  to,  as  well  as  her  own  troubles 
to  occupy  her  thoughts.  I  am  too  exacting;  I'm  a  despicable  old 
brute,  that's  what  I  am.  The  poor  child  has  had  a  sufficient  share 
of  misery  to  endure,  without  expecting  her  to  add  to  it  by  having  to 
write  to  a  hideous  old  scare-crow  like  me.  After  all  she  only 


BEHIND   THE  ARRAS.  157 

promised  to  keep  me  posted  as  to  their  whereabouts,  and  so  she  has, 
poor  thing;  quite  enough  to  satisfy  any  one  but  a  grasping  extor- 
tionate old  duffer.  What  right  have  I  to  expect  a  pretty  young  girl 
to  be  writing  to  me,  and  giving  up  what  little  time  she  may  have  to 
look  about  her  in  strange  lands?  to  compel  her  to  draw  upon  her 
slender  means  for  postage?  It's  scandalous,  outrageous  of  me,  and 
I  ought  to  be  ashamed  of  myself  for  having  written  her  the  com- 
plaining letter  I  did.  But  what  else  could  be  hoped  for,  from  an 
inconsiderate  selfish  old  beggar! 

" Heigho!  There  it  goes  snowing  again:  no  hunting  for  days  to 
come — that's  very  evident.  How  many  poor  creatures  may  there  be 
at  this  moment,  perishing  from  cold  and  hunger,  and  here  am  I, 
comfortably  housed,  clothed  and  fed,  and  growling,  and  whining 
because,  forsooth,  a  nice,  sweet,  pretty  girl,  doesn't  happen  to  write 
me  a  long  letter.  Bah!  Jolliffe  Tufnell,  I  am  positively  ashamed  of 
you,  you  ought  to  be  well  kicked,  that's  what — 

"Mail,  sir,"  interrupted  the  old  butler,  as  he  entered  with  the 
leather  bag  in  his  hand.  "Train  was  stopped  by  a  snow-drift  at 
Sawbridge  Cutting,  sir,"  he  added,  handing  the  bag  to  his  master; 
"  stopped  a  hour  and  a  Jarf,  sir,  and  that " 

"Accounts  for  the  delay,  I  have  no  doubt/'  said  Tufnell.  "Leave 
the  bag  on  the  chair,  Boffins:  I  shall  open  it  shortly.  That  will  do." 

"Yes,  sir;"  and  Boffins,  cut  short  in  his  narrative,  and  impeded 
in  his  observation  of  the  bag's  contents,  took  his  departure  with  dig- 
nified pomposity. 

Tufnell  gave  him  time  to  reach  his  pantry,  lighting  a  cigar  to  fill  • 
up  the  interim,  and  then  took  out  his  bunch  of  keys  and  unlocked 
the  bag.  Besides  the  newspapers  there  were  two  letters:  one  ad- 
dressed in  a  round  business-like  hand,  and  with  a  London  post- 
mark; the  other  in  the  angular  caligraphy  of  a  woman,  and  covered 
with  foreign  postage  stamps.  The  latter  he  picked  up  eagerly  with 
a  gratified  smile  about  his  lips,  paused  a  moment  to  knock  the  ash 
off  the  end  of  his  cigar  and  mutter,  "what  a  brute  I  was!"  and  then 
opened  it  and  read : 

"EoME,  December  12,  18—. 
"  PEAK  MR.  TUFNELL: 

"Your  reproachful  letter  lies  beside  me.  No,  it  was  not  negli- 
gence, my  failing  to  write  to  you  as  I  had  promised. 

"My  time  is  not  my  own,  as  you  are  aware,  and  when  we  are  not 
passing  from  one  place  to  another,  and  between  the  intervals  that  I 
am  allowed  for  sight-seeing,  Miss  Courtenay  manages  to  keep  me 
constantly  busy  with  one  thing  or  another:  brushing  her  hair  while 
she  reads,  or  reading  to  her  myself  as  she  seems  to  have  discovered 
that  I  have  a  talent  that  way;  packing  and  unpacking,  etc.,  etc.,  etc. 


158  BEHIND   THE  ARRAS. 

"  Truth  to  tell,  I  have  had  a  few  leisure  moments;  but  when  I 
had  time  to  think,  what  is  called  '  homesickness '  came  upon  me,  and 
I  was  not  capable  of  the  exertion  of  writing. 

"  Do  not  think  that  I  am  unhappy;  but  at  times,  the  '  blues  '  get 
possession  of  me,  and  do  battle  with  the  spirit  of  contentment  that 
would  otherwise  reign  supreme;  and  then  I  can  but  sit  and  think 
till  they  tire  of  me  and  take  their  flight.  But  sometimes  they  are 
so  persistent  that  it  is  only  when  some  duty  calls  that  they  will  be- 
gone. 

"On  the  whole  I  think  you  are  fortunate  to  have  got  the  two 
short  notes  from  Cologne  and  Frankfort  telling  where  and  how  I 
was.  Now,  however,  I  am  going  to  make  you  sorry  for  your  im- 
portunity, by  boring  you  with  an  account  of  our  travels,  and  the 
discoveries  I  have  made  in  this  new  sphere  of  action. 

"  Although  I  am  longing  to  pour  forth  a  descriptive  torrent  of 
enthusiasm  regarding  all  the  wonders  of  this  Eternal  City,  mercy 
for  you,  who  have  seen  all  and  much  more,  bids  me  refrain.  I  will 
give  but  a  bare  account  of  our  course,  with  whatever  digressions  it 
will  be  impossible  to  restrain. 

"We  have  been  nearly  two  months  in  coming  from  Paris  to  Rome, 
stopping  of  course  en  route  for  days  and  even  weeks  at  different 
places  of  interest;  and  as  this  is  my  first  trip  abroad  of  any  length, 
my  enjoyment  is  in  proportion  to  the  space  we  traverse.  Under 
other  circumstances  I  could  be  perfectly  happy  roaming  over  the 
world,  but  although  Lady  Amtenhurst  always  allows  me  time  to  see 
everything  of  interest,  yet,  as  a  serving-woman,  there  are  many 
places  that  I  cannot  enter.  "Whenever  I  accompany  them,  it  is  as  a 
servant,  allowed  a  position  in  the  rear,  and  of  what  I  do  see,  I  am 
not  able  to  converse.  Interchange  of  ideas  is  half  the  pleasure 
of  life,  particularly  when  viewing  new  and  historical  scenes,  and 
here  where  so  many  are  to  be  gleaned,  mine  have  to  be  held  in  close 
confinement.  Lady  A.  is  kind  beyond  expression,  but  it  is  the  kind- 
ness of  a  superior  to  an  inferior,  of  course,  and  all  the  time  there 
exists  a  barrier  between  us  with  the  words  in  great  glaring  letters  of 
admonition:  'Thus  far  shalt  thou  go  and  no  farther!'  But  what 
right  have  I  to  complain?  If  cultivation  of  the  mind  gives  one  a 
fund  of  peaceful  enjoyment,  by  furnishing  a  stock  of  thoughts  and 
ideas  from  which  to  draw  mental  employment  in  moments  of  bodily 
idleness,  I  should  be  grateful  for  past  and  present  advantages.  I 
feel  that  I  could  be  happy  in  perfect  ignorance,  with  those  around 
me  I  love;  but  if  that  be  impossible,  this  other  source  of  happiness 
is  left  me,  and  I  try  to  be  thankful,  and  pray  daily  for  a  contented 
spirit.  It  will  come  in  time,  but  until  it  does,  bear  with  my  change- 
ful moods — you,  the  only  friend  I  have. 

"  I  was  about  to  tell  you  of  our  journey,  when  I  (nothing  uncom- 
mon, you  will  say,)  'went  off  on  a  tangent'  to  thoughts  and  feelings 
—the  natural  consequence  of  traveling,  I  suppose;  but  I  have  re- 
versed the  order  of  things  by  placing  effects  before  their  cause.  To 
begin  at  the  beginning — let  me  tell  you  what  you  know  already: 
We  left  Paris  on  the  seventh  of  October.  Miss  Courtenay,  for 
whose  benefit  this  trip  is  taken,  chose  the  route  along  the  Rhine  in 
preference  to  the  more  direct  one  through  France,  and  we  reached 


BEHIND  THE  ARRAS.  159 

Brussels  that  evening.  I  was  sorry  to  be  obliged  to  pass  the  pretty 
town  of  Valenciennes,  with  its  avenues  of  tall  trees  intersecting 
the  fields,  an  improvement,  I  think,  on  our  low  hedges,  fragrant 
hawthorn  though  they  be.  At  first  I  wished  to  see  everything,  and 
pass  nothing  by  unnoticed;  but  now  I  have  learned  to  be  satisfied 
with  a  sight  of  the  more  important  objects  of  interest  in  our  course, 
feeling  it  beyond  the  power  of  human  mind  to  grasp  every  detail  of 
even  a  part  of  this  great  world. 

"  The  next  day  we  drove  to  the  battle-field  of  Waterloo  (by  the 
goodness  of  Lady  A.,  I  being  of  the  party),  along  the  road  by  which 
Wellington  marched.  It  was  with  mingled  awe  and  repugnance 
that  I  looked  upon  the  scene — awe  for  the  arena  where  nations  had 
struggled  for  power — repugnance  for  the  ground  where  had  been 
sprinkled  human  blood,  shed  by  human  ambition.  We  remained 
in  Brussels  over  Sunday,  and  I  was  surprised  to  see  all  the  shops 
open  and  street-hawkers  as  busy  as  the  tradespeople.  On  Monday, 
they  went  to  Antwerp,  leaving  me  to  await  their  return;  and  I  took 
advantage  of  their  absence  to  explore  the  town,  visiting  the  church 
of  St.  Gudule,  the  cathedral  of  Notre  Dame  de  Chapelle,  and  a  lace- 
manufactory,  where  I  could  not  but  pity  the  poor  women  who 
destroy  their  eyesight  in  dark  rooms  with  but  one  ray  of  light  to  fall 
upon  their  work.  From  Brussels  wre  went  to  quaint,  antiquated 
Mechlin,  with  its  grotesque-looking  houses,  and  on  to  Liege — famous 
in  history;  thence  to  Viviers,  Aix  la  Chapelle  and  Cologne.  I  was 
never  so  glad  to  leave  any  place  as  Cologne,  after  three  tedious 
days;  it  is  so  dark  and  dismal  at  night  when  the  shops  are  all  shut, 
and  one  feels  such  continual  need  of  eau  de  Cologne,  which  is  not 
prevalent  in  the  atmosphere. 

"  However,  one  glimpse  of  the  Rhine,  which  we  came  upon  here, 
repaid  us  for  wandering  through  dirty  streets  to  see  the  unfinished 
Dom  Kirche  and  its  relics;  the  churches  of  St.  Ursula  and  of  the 
Eleven  Thousand  Virgins,  and  St.  Peters,  which  contains  the  fam- 
ous altar  piece  of  Rubens;  a  Roman  ruin,  a  botanical  garden,  etc. 
We  went  by  rail  to  Bonn,  the  birthplace  of  Beethoven,  where  the 
beauty  of  the  river  really  begins,  and  there  were  delayed  two  weeks 
at  the  Hotel  Bellevue  by  the  indisposition  of  Lady  A.  I  stayed 
with  her,  while  the  earl  and  his  niece  drove  out  to  see  the  sights 
every  day;  not  many  they  said.  Our  best  way  to  Mayence  and  the 
quickest,  would  have  been  by  steamboat,  but  Miss  C.  preferred  the 
land,  and  so  we  went,  resting  in  different  towns  along  the  line. 
How  abundant  and  weird  are  the  legends  of  the  Rhine !  Our  guide 
had  them  at  his  fingers'  ends,  and  they  were  called  forth  by  every 
crumbling  tower  and  castle;  and  love,  murder,  ghosts  or  demons 
seemed  to  be  connected  with  every  beetling  crag.  From  the  forti- 
fied city  of  Mayence  we  passed  on  to  Frankfort,  where  I  took  greater 
pleasure  in  exploring  the  old  town,  with  its  narrow  streets  and 
gabled  houses  with  lofty  peaked  roofs,  than  in  the  modern  part 
where  streets  are  broad  and  well  paved,  and  the  houses  almost  pal- 
aces. I  was  vastly  amused  by  the  custom  of  raising  the  hat  to  all 
classes,  and  it  seemed  so  strange  to  see  persons  of  rank,  bowing 
politely  to  shopkeepers.  We  stopped  at  Heidelberg  to  see  its  famous 
castelated  ruin,  and  the  celebrated  Heidelberg  tun,  which  they  tell 


160  BEHIND   THE  ARRAS. 

me  used  to  be  filled  with  eight  hundred  hogsheads  of  wine  when 
the  Electors  held  their  court  there;  and  also  visited  the  church  di- 
vided into  two  sections  for  Protestant  and  Catholic  worship;  and 
then  passed  rapidly  through  Carlsruhe  and  Baden-Baden  (where  we 
are  to  make  a  stay  on  our  return;  so  Miss  C.  says)  to  Strasburg, 
where  we  remained  ten  days  at  the  Hotel  de  Ville,  waiting  for  some 
people  who  failed  to  come,  why,  I  know  not,  nor  who  they  were, 
but  it  was  apparently  a  great  disappointment  to  Miss  Courtenay. 
Our  next  stopping  place  was  Basle,  a  larger  place  than  I  expected 
to  find,  and  some  of  the  scenery  picturesque  and  beautiful.  It  was 

E revoking  in  the  extreme,  resting  here  upon  the  verge  of  Switzer- 
ind,  the  land  of  mountains,  glaciers,  cliffs,  cataracts,  lakes,  rivers 
and  forests — what  a  vast  combination  of  the  beautiful  in  nature! — to 
feel  that  it  would  all  have  to  be  passed  so  close  and  left  unexplored. 
Next  summer,  I  believe,  we  are  to  go  through  the  Tyrol,  but  it  was 
too  late  in  the  season  now,  and,  indeed,  the  cold  during  our  ascent 
to  Berne  was  intense,  and  warned  us  to  hurry  on.  Parting  with 
little  reluctance  from  the  bears  in  stone,  and  bears  in  flesh,  that  met 
us  at  every  turn  in  this  town  of  bears,  we  moved  on  to  Geneva, 
passed  through  the  twelve  miles  of  tunnel  under  Mont  Cenis,  into 
Piedmont,  made  a  stay  of  two  days  at  Turin,  and  on  by  rail  to 
Genoa-.L«  Superba.  We  remained  there  a  week  for  the  sake  of  see- 
ing the  palaces  and  villas  of  its  Doge  and  noblemen;  the  cathedrals, 
churches,  colleges  and  universities;  academies  of  arts  and  sciences; 
manufactories,  statuary,  paintings  and  monuments.  Being  in  the 
birthplace  of  Christopher  Columbus  inspired  me  with  the  wish  to 
visit  America,  and  see,  if  in  their  homes,  Americans  are  as  kind- 
hearted,  generous  and  chivalrous  as  I  have  been  led  to  believe 
from  the  few  specimens  I  have  met  with. 

"  By  steamer  on  to  Leghorn,  whence  we  went  by  rail  in  less  than 
an  hour  to  Pisa — again  Lady  A.  taking  me  when  I  could  have  been 
left  behind — and  our  heads  were  thoroughly  upset  by  one  glance 
down  from  the  top  of  the  Leaning  Tower.  The  belief  that  the  pile 
was  falling  made  us  make  a  hasty  descent,  and  Miss  Courtenay  ac- 
tually screamed  with  nervous  dread,  although  her  courage  is  her 
greatest  boast.  Returning  the  same  afternoon  to  Leghorn,  we 
started  on  our  way  once  more,  and  spending  a  few  days  in  Civita 
Vecchia,  reached  Rome  last  week.  Here  we  are,  and  here  we  re- 
main until  after  the  Christmas  Holidays,  the  programme  then  being 
that  we  are  to  go  to  Naples  for  a  glimpse  of  Vesuvius,  come  back  to 
Rome  for  a  few  days,  and  then  on  to  Florence,  Venice,  Vienna,  the 
Tyrol  and  home.  And  all  this  is  for  the  benefit  of  Miss  C.— Lord 
and  Lady  A.  having  been  over  this  ground  many  times  before.  And, 
do  you  know  that  I  sometimes  fancy  that  her  ladyship  dislikes  Italy, 
and  she  certainly  avoids  one  portion  of  it — Florence.  I  have  often 
observed  an  expression  of  pain  at  the  mere  mention  of  its  name, 
probably  attributable  to  unpleasant  associations;  but  she  is  so  thor- 
oughly unselfish,  that  as  her  niece  insists  upon  visiting  the  place, 
she  has  consented  to  go  with  her  at,  I  really  believe,  great  cost  to 
her  feelings.  Hers  is  a  beautiful  character,  and  each  day  I  feel 
more  drawn  toward  her;  and  a  wild  fancy  sometimes  seizes  me  to 
tell  her  all  about  myself,  and  ask  her  pity,  her  sympathy,  and  her 


BEHIND   THE  ARRAS. 

help.  She  would  give  them,  I  think,  and  from  her  it  would  be 
welcome;  but  I  dread  to  make  the  test,  for  so  many  illusions  have 
been  dispelled,  that  if  this  be  one,  I  would  have  it  last,  and  look  up 
to  her  as  long  as  I  may,  as  the  most  perfect  type  of  womanhood  I 
have  ever  met  with.  Here,  at  least,  is  a  well-matched  couple. 
Lord  A.,  with  his  genial  warmth  of  manner,  thaws  even  the  coldest, 
and  yet,  withal,  there  is  a  certain  air  of  refinement  about  him  which 
marks  the  line  between  the  manly  bonhommie  which  puts  all  classes 
at  their  ease,  and  the  demonstrative  camaraderie  which  jars  upon 
gentle  nerves,  and  invites  the  'hail-fellow-well- met '  portion  of  so- 
ciety to  rough  familiarity.  He  is  innately  proud,  and  the  existence 
of  the  feeling  is  proved  by  its  very  suppression.  Too  proud  of  the 
characteristic  to  acknowledge  pride — as  it  were — no  trace  of  it  is  to 
be  found  in  his  manner;  yet  there  is  nothing  of  carelessness  for  his 
own  fair  name  and  fame  to  prove  its  absence,  and  it  is  as  surely  in 
his  nature  as  in  mine. 

"  In  him,  it  is  a  virtue,  a  shield;  in  me,  I  fear,  a  vice,  a  peace- 
destroying  power;  but  with  him  before  me  for  an  example,  why  may 
I  not  bring  it  under  subjection,  and  free  it  as  completely  from  its 
outward  visible  form  and  inward  pricking  points  as  is  his,  and  make 
it  a  guard,  an  armor,  against  '  the  slings  and  arrows  of  outrageous 
fortune/  rather  than  a  secret  tormenting  magnifier  of  the  wounding 
powers  of  every-day  trifles  ? 

"Had  I  remained  with  the  Egertons,  it  should  have  protected 
me  from  feeling  the  sneers  and  slights  of  the  world,  and  braced  me 
against  unkindness  by  the  consciousness  of  good  in  myself,  and 
superiority  to  the  rank  from  which  I  was  taken.  But  instead,  listen- 
ing to  all  that  was  said  against  me,  it  urged  me  to  the  course  I 
pursued.  Without  the  help  of  humility  to  bear  meekly,  even  if 
painfully,  niy  lot  in  life,  it  was  impossible  to  remain,  although,  too, 
I  discovered  before  I  left,  that  my  principal  motive  for  leaving  was 
without  foundation.  I  still  say  impossible,  and  so  silence  the  doubts 
which  torment  me.  Do  you  understand  me?  I  hope  so,  but 
doubt  it. 

"My  chief  amusement  is  studying  Miss  Courtenay's  character; 
and  yet,  be  as  studious  as  I  may,  I  cannot  fathom  it.  She  is  de- 
cidedly of  an  open  disposition;  ever  ready  to  tell  her  most  secret 
thoughts  to  any  one  who  asks  them,  and  as  she  appears  perfectly 
well  acquainted  with  all  her  own  traits  of  character,  and  frequently 
makes  them  a  subject  of  conversation,  it  is  all  the  more  strange  that 
I  cannot  make  her  out.  Profiting  by  your  advice  to  keep  my  tem- 
per, we  get  on  capitally  together;  and  though  she  is  something  of  a 
task-mistress,  I  feel  grateful  to  her  for  taking  my  thoughts  from 
myself.  I  fear  I  do  not  show  much  gratitude  by  my  words,  but  my 
excuse  is  your  knowledge  of  her  failings;  and  you  don't  know  what 
a  relief  it  is  to  think  and  write  of  anything  but  the  subject  that  now 
troubles  me,  that  of  my  having  left  the  Egertons.  Yet,  see  what  a 
loadstone  it  is,  for  I  am  getting  back  to  it  again.  I  cannot  write 
without  expressing  the  thoughts  uppermost  in  my  mind,  and  as 
I  have  no  wish  to  punish  you,  I  will  bring  to  a  conclusion  this  test 
of  your  powers  of  endurance.  Your  letters  are  always  welcome,  and 
for  the  next  month  will  reach  me  here. 
11 


162  BEHIND  THE  ARRAS. 

"  Many  thanks  for  informing  me  of  the  movements  of  the  Eger- 
tons.  I  am  almost  sorry  now  that  you  wrote  to  tell  Sir  Griffith  of 
my  existence.  I  only  hope  (as  you  are  kind  enough  to  do),  that 
they  will  not  extend  their  tour  to  Italy. 

"  Believe  me, 

"Yours,  very  sincerely, 

"LucY  SULLIVAN." 

"P.  S.  The  name  is  not  yet  familiar  to  me,  though  losing  much 
of  its  first  strangeness.  You  cannot  subscribe  to  the  popular  fallacy 
that  the  pith  of  a  woman's  letter  lies  in  the  postscript,  after  this/' 

Tufnell  thought  he  could,  as  he  laid  the  letter  down  with  a  smile, 
and  opened  the  other,  which  ran  as  follows: 

"  8  GRAY'S  INN,  LONDON,  W.  C. 

"December,  14,  18—. 
"  JOLLIFFE  TUFNELL,  ESQ.,  Sir: 

"  We  are  this  day  in  receipt  of  a  communication  from  the  Chief 
of  the  Police  Department  at  San  Francisco,  California,  in  reply  to 
ours  of  the  twentieth  ult. ,  informing  us  that  a  man  named  Martin 
Silliman,  and  answering  in  every  particular  to  the  description  you 
furnished  us  with,  even  to  the  scar  under  the  eye,  was  living  in  that 
city,  and  following,  as  was  suspected  by  the  police  authorities,  the 
business  of  a  professional  gambler. 

"  We  are  now  in  a  position  to  submit  the  evidence  you  have  accu- 
mulated of  the  man's  guilt  to  the  law  officers  of  the  Crown,  so  that 
the  whole  matter  may  be  laid  before  the  Foreign  Office,  and  the  requi- 
site steps  taken  for  his  apprehension,  under  the  treaty  of  extradi- 
tion between  Great  Britain  and  the  United  States. 
"  Awaiting  your  reply, 

"  We  are,  sir, 

"Your  obedient  servants, 

"  BLUEBAGGE  &  PARCHMENTS. 


BEHIND  THE  ARRAS.  1(33 


CHAPTER  XV. 

The  dawn  is  overcast,  the  morning  lowers 
And  heavily  in  clouds  brings  on  the  day, 
The  great,  the  important,  day. 

—  "  Cato:"  Act  I,  Scene  I. 

RAINY  day  in  Borne.  Something  one  seldom  thinks  of  in 
connection  with  the  proverbially  blue  and  sunny  vault  of  an 
Italian  sky;  yet  the  clouds  hung  as  dark  and  heavy,  the 
wind  moaned  as  drearily,  and  the  rain  was  as  persistingly 
monotonous  in  its  drip,  drip,  drip,  and  certainly  quite  as  wetting 
and  dispiriting  in  its  effects  as  on  any  day  in  less  favored  old  Eng- 
land, two-thirds  of  the  year  through.  Dismal  and  dreary  beyond 
measure  were  the  deserted  streets,  and  seeming  doubly  so  by 
contrast  with  the  pageantry  that  had  made  the  city  gay  during  the 
so  recent  Christmas  holidays.  The  peculiar-looking  Calabrian  min- 
strels, the  Pifferari,  in  their  wild  and  striking  dresses  and  huge  zam- 
pogne  and  high-peaked  caps,  decked  with  sprigs  of  heather  and  rib- 
bons gay,  lounge  and  sleep  no  longer  on  the  steps  of  the  Piazza  di 
Spagna;  the  Trasteverini,  in  picturesque  costumes,  who  boast  of 
being  the  only  true  descendants  of  the  ancient  Eomans;  the  fierce 
bandit-like  men;  the  peasants  from  the  deserted  tombs  of  the  Cam- 
pagna,  are  no  longer  seen — none  of  the  gay  throng  that  at  the  firing 
of  the  cannon  from  the  massive  castle  of  St.  Angelo  on  Christmas 
Eve,  nocked  to  the  Basilicas  for  vespers;  that  assembled  on  Christ- 
mas morning  in  St.  Peter's  to  hear  the  beautiful  Pastorella  sung  by 
the  whole  choir,  and  at  a  later  hour  crowded  in  gorgeous  array  to 
High  Mass,  and  to  see  the  Pope  in  his  flowing  scarlet  robes,  spark- 
ling with  jewels,  borne  above  their  heads  in  his  chair  of  State,  pre- 
ceded by  his  guard  of  sixty  Roman  nobles,  surrounded  by  cardinals 
in  scarlet,  bishops  of  Eastern  churches,  priests  in  purple  and  white, 
swinging  golden  censors  as  they  moved,  and  carrying  lighted  tapers, 
and  the  Great  Cross.  The  splendid  ornaments  removed  from  the 
altars,  images  of  the  Virgin  stripped  of  their  gayest  dresses,  the 
papal  banners  taken  in,  the  shops  despoiled  of  their  floral  dec- 
orations. 

The  Amtenhursts  had  left  Rome  for  Naples  when  all  was  over, 
but  now,  returned  once  more  to  the  Eternal  City,  were  moping 
through  this  rainy  day  at  the  Hotel  d'Angleterre,  waiting  for  a 
glimpse  of  sunshine  to  light  them  on  tteir  way  again. 

Lady  Amtenhurst,  with  "  Coningsby"  in  her  hand,  sat  inter- 
rupted in  her  reading;  Edith  Courtenay  reclined  on  a  sofa,  with  her 


BEHIND  THE  AREAS. 

eyes  half  closed,  dreaming  away  the  hours,  and  sighed  and  grum- 
bled at  the  weather;  the  Earl  was  busy  over  some  important  corres- 
pondence at  his  writing-desk,  and  Lucy,  the  paleness  of  her  face 
increased  by  the  contrast  of  her  black  hair,  stood  just  within  the 
threshhold. 

"You  have  a  strange  fancy  for  these  art  galleries,  Sullivan,"  said 
Lady  Amtenhurst.  "You  may  go,  of  course;  but  don't  be  late,  as 
we  dine  out  this  evening.  It  is  very  wet/'  she  added,  glancing  at 
the  window,  "and  you  had  better  wrap  up  well,  and  not  catch  cold." 

"  Bain  never  hurts  me,  my  lady,"  answered  Lucy,  bravely. 

"  "What  on  earth  can  you  know  about  paintings,  Sullivan?"  asked 
Miss  Courtenay  from  her  sofa,  without  opening  her  eyes.  "Are 
you  going  to  write  a  book  on  art,  for  the  benefit  of  persons  in  your 
sphere  of  usefulness?" 

"  Edith,  take  a  book  and  read,"  quietly  remarked  the  Earl,  still 
busy  with  his  letters,  and  with  the  nearest  approach  to  sternness 
his  kindly  voice  could  ever  reach. 

"You  may  go,  then,  Sullivan,"  said  Lady  Amtenhurst,  "and  I 
hope  you  will  enjoy  yourself." 

"  Thank  you,  my  lady;"  and  Lucy's  flushed  face  left  the  doorway. 

With  an  umbrella  over  her  head,  and  her  dress  lifted  above  her 
stout  boots,  Lucy  tripped  along  the  Yia  della  Fontanella  to  the 
Palazzo  Borghese,  heedless  of  the  down-pour,  her  mind  filled  with 
thoughts  of  the  treasures  of  art  she  was  hastening  to  look  upon  for 
the  last  time,  and  wishing  that  to  her  had  been  given  genius  like 
these  masters,  whose  master-pieces  she  had  learned  to  love. 

Almost  all  her  spare  moments  in  Rome  had  been  passed  at  the 
rooms  of  the  Palazzo  Borghese,  and  this  was  to  be  her  farewell  visit. 

A  couple  of  hours  went  swiftly  by  as  she  wandered  from  picture 
to  picture,  gazing  with  wonder  and  admiration  at  the  gems  which 
adorned  the  walls  of  the  Palazzo's  thirteen  rooms. 

At  length  it  was  time  for  her  to  go,  and  with  a  last  lingering  look 
at  her  especial  favorites :  Albano's  Four  Seasons,  Backhuysen's  mag- 
nificent sea-piece,  and  Raphael's  entombment,  she  passed  reluct- 
antly from  this  wonderful  world  of  man's  creation  to  the  cold  and 
dreariness  without. 

It  was  still  raining  when  she  reached  the  Piazza  and  the  wind 
freshening  into  a  gale.  But  it  was  not  far  to  the  hotel,  and  open- 
ing her  umbrella  she  stepped  bravely  out.  She  had  not  taken  many 
steps  when  one  of  those  heavy  showers  which  come  in  the  midst  of 
a  rain  storm,  came  upon  her  with  all  its  violence.  The  rain  poured 
down  in  torrents,  and,  blown  into  sheets  of  water  by  the.  fierce  gusts 
of  wind,  drove  her  pitilessly  before  it,  along  the  deluged  pavement. 


BEHIND  THE  AERAS.  165 

Her  umbrella  a  mass  of  tangled  whalebone  and  torn  gingham,  the 
result  of  an  attempt  to  retain  its  possession  at  a  more  boisterous 
street-crossing,  her  cloak  and  hat  dripping  and  her  boots  soaked 
through,  she  sought  the  shelter  of  a  shop's  awning  until  the  force  of 
the  shower  had  spent  itself.  With  a  gasp  of  relief  and  a  reproach- 
ful glace  at  her  demolished  umbrella,  she  was  about  to  retreat  far- 
ther back  from  the  driving  wind,  to  the  alcove  between  the  door 
and  window,  but  she  found  it  already  occupied.  Another  person, 
a  young  girl,  had  like  herself  taken  refuge  there  from  the  storm.  A 
slight  girlish  figure  in  a  dark  sealskin  jacket — a  pretty,  anxious 
face  with  large  sad  eyes  peering  wistfully  from  beneath  a  little  fur 
cap  at  the  streaming  torrent  without :  by  far  too  delicately  pretty  an 
object  to  be  out  of  doors  on  such  a  day. 

As  Lucy  stood  regarding  this  little  flower  in  the  midst  of  such 
bleak  surroundings,  the  wistful  look  gave  way  to  one  of  quickly- 
coming  brightness,  the  lips  parted,  and  the  girl's  whole  face  lighted 
up  as  she  eagerly  bent  forward.  Turning  to  see  the  cause  of  this  sud- 
den change,  Lucy's  eyes  fell  upon  the  figure  of  a  man  enveloped  in  an 
Ulster,  his  face  half  hidden  behind  his  umbrella,  as,  battling  with 
the  wind,  he  struggled  along  the  Via  de  Condotti  and  on  toward 
where  they  stood.  Her  heart  gave  one  bound  into  her  throat,  while 
the  rushing  blood  went  surging  and  throbbing  up  into  her  brain, 
and  then  ebbed  quickly  back,  leaving  her  cold,  white  and  frigid. 
Would  he  pass  on?  Shrinking  farther  back  to  the  wall  she  looked 
again.  No;  he  was  close  at  hand  and  coming  directly  towards  them. 
Did  he  see  her — recognize  her?  He  was  looking  over  and  beyond 
her,  and  now,  in  passing,  brushed  against  her  skirts  and  went  straight 
to  the  girl  in  the  alcove  with  outstretched  hand  and  smiling  face. 

"Florence!" 

"Alva!" 

Strange  heart  of  woman!  When  Lucy  thought  it  was  she  he 
sought,  all  her  mind  was  on  avoidance;  but  as  he  failed  to  recog- 
nize one  with  veil-covered  face  so  different  in  appearance  to  the  Lucy 
Egerton  of  old,  her  feeling  was  one  of  mingled  anguish  and  anger. 
Anywhere  and  under  any  circumstances  would  she  have  known  him, 
and  now  he  had  passed  her  so  closely  as  one  never  seen  before. 

"  What  on  earth  brings  you  out  of  doors  this  fearful  day?"  In- 
golsby  asked.  . 

"  I  was  on  my  way  to  get  this  prescription  made  up  for  papa:  I 
did  not  like  to  trust  any  one  else,"  the  little  voice  answered.  "  But 
when  did  you  arrive?" 

"  I  only  arrived  in  Eome  half  an  hour  ago,  and  was  just  on  my 
way  to  your  hotel.  You  must  have  wondered  at  my  delay  in  com- 


BEHIND   THE  A  ERAS. 

ing,  but  I  started  immediately  on  receipt  of  your  letter.  I  was  with 
some  friends  in  Basle,  and  by  the  luckiest  chance  returning  to  Lon- 
don about  some  business  matters,  found  your  summons  lying  at  my 
club.  I  did  not  wait  an  hour  after  I  got  it,  and  traveled  post-haste 
in  terrible  anxiety,  lest  I  should  find  little  Florence  alone  in  this 
strange  place.  Is  there  really  no  hope  ?"  he  asked,  sorrowfully. 

"  None,  the  doctors  say/'  she  answered  with  a  sob.  "  Poor,  dear 
Papa!  it  is  so  hard  to  lose  him,  and  we  so  far  away  from  home  too; 
and  I  have  no  one  else  in  all  the  wide,  wide  world." 

"You  forget,  Florence,"  Ingolsby  said,  in  a  gentle  tone,  bend- 
ing down;  and  as  his  companion  caught  his  whispered  words,  a 
blush  spread  over  her  fair  face,  and  a  smile  shone  through  her  tears. 

The  gesture — the  whisper — the  mute  rejoinder — were  too  much 
for  Lucy.  From  where  she  stood,  she  had  seen  all,  heard  all,  and 
giving  her  own  interpretation  to  it — the  one  she  most  dreaded  was 
the  surest  to  suggest  itself — staggering  as  from  a  blow,  she  turned 
and  left  the  friendly  shelter,  and  regardless  of  the  pelting  rain  and 
driving  wind,  fled  through  the*  narrow  streets,  pursued  by  thoughts 
that  almost  maddened  her. 

Now  in  one  street,  now  in  another,  heedless  of  where  her  steps 
turned,  the  one  haunting  vision  bewildering  her  brain,  on,  on  she 
dashed.  "When  there  were  such  in  the  world  as  this  gentle,  lovable 
little  beauty  to  ensnare  men's  affections,  who  could  care  for  her  f 
Pitiless  was  the  picture  she  drew  of  herself  as  she  fled  through  the 
dark  and  cheerless  streets — hardly  less  to  be  pitied  in  her  suffering 
than  the  maidens  of  old,  who  had  marched,  footsore,  weary,  and  de- 
graded, through  this  very  city,  to  grace  while  they  shamed  the  tri- 
umphs of  their  tyrant  conquerors.  Not  less  powerful  a  tyrant  had 
conquered  her — Love;  and  vain  had  been  her  struggle  for  freedom. 
Its  golden  chains  still  upon  her,  crushing  her  down  with  their 
mighty  weight,  on,  on  she  went,  and  it  was  not  until  chance  led  her 
back  into  the  Via  del  Corso,  that  she  awakened  to  a  consciousness 
of  surrounding  objects.  Dripping,  saturated,  heavy-hearted  and 
foot-sore,  she  reached  the  door  of  the  hotel. 

To  go  quickly  to  her  room,  lock  the  door,  and  fall  upon  her  knees 
by  the  bedside  was  the  impulse  that  she  followed.  Beyond  that, 
what  her  thoughts,  what  her  actions  during  the  time  she  remained 
there,  she  herself  could  never  tell,  and  none  else  could  ever  know— 

"  That  anguish  which  is  to  sorrow  what  ecstasy  is  to  joy," 

must  have  been  hers.     Let  it  rest  in  oblivion. 

The  early  January  night  had  come  and  darkened  all  about  her, 
when  some  one  knocked  at  her  door. 


BEHIND   THE  ARRAS.  167 

"  Sullivan!  Sullivan!  Are  you  asleep  or  dead?  Sullivan!  Sullivan! 
"Will  you  answer?" 

Lucy  stirred  and  shivered,  wondering  vaguely  what  it  could  mean. 
The  wind  moaned  dismally  without,  and  the  rain  pattered  and 
splashed  against  the  window  panes;  again  came  the  voice,  as  the 
door  handle  was  violently  shaken : 

"  Sullivan,  I  say!  Open  the  door  or  answer  this  minute!" 

All  at  once  a  sense  of  her  forgotten  duties  dawned  upon  her,  and 
she  started  up  to  open  the  door;  then  remembering  that  her  wet 
clothes  were  still  upon  her,  she  answered  hastily  but  with  difficulty, 
for  the  words  seemed  to  stick  in  her  throat: 

"  I  will  come  in  one  moment,  miss.'' 

"  So  you  have  returned  from  your  gadding,  have  you?  But  I 
wouldn't  hurry,  if  I  were  you,"  replied  Edith  Courtenay's  voice,  in 
its  most  sarcastic  tones.  "Ladies'  maids  of  elegant  leisure,  with 
tastes  for  the  fine  arts,  should  not  be  disturbed  from  their  before- 
dinner  naps,  by  any  manner  of  means!  But  come  at  once,  and 
don't  keep  us  waiting  any  longer — do  you  hear?" 

"  Yes,  miss,"  hoarsely,  but  meekly. 

"Don't  wait  to  finish  the  chapter,  if  you've  been  reading,"  Miss 
Courtenay  added  as  a  finisher,  and  then  rustled  and  swept  from  the 
door. 

Lucy,  with  all  the  dispatch  that  stiff,  cold  fingers,  aching  bones, 
and  a  swimming  head  would  permit,  and  with  nervous  dread  of  an- 
other commanding  summons  from  without,  changed  her  wet  and 
sodden  garments,  and  hastened  to  Lady  Amtenhurst's  apartments. 

Lady  Amtenhurst  was  alone,  sitting  before  the  glass  in  her  dress- 
ing-room waiting  to  have  her  hair  dressed. 

"You  are  a  little  late,  Sullivan,"  she  said  kindly,  as  Lucy  en- 
tered. "  I  suppose  you  forgot  that  we  dine  out  to-night.  Did  you 
see  everything  you  wished  ?"  she  asked,  as  Lucy's  nervous  fingers 
began  their  work  upon  the  soft  white  hair. 

"  No,  my  lady,"  Lucy  answered,  striving  hard  to  steady  her  voice 
at  recollection  of  the  scene  she  had  witnessed. 

"Were  you  not  then  pleased  with  the  paintings ?  As  Miss  Cour- 
tenay says,  it  requires  a  highly  cultivated  taste  to  appreciate  the  full 
beauties  of  the  master-pieces,  and  you  have  had  so  few  opportun- 
ities of  seeing  fine  paintings — 

"  Yes,  my  lady,"  Lucy  replied  at  random,  her  thoughts  far  away. 

"  That  whatever  taste  you  have,  must  be  natural  to  you  rather 
than  acquired?" 

Mechanically  filling  the  pause,  Lucy  answered: 

"Yes,  my  lady." 


BEHIND  THE  ARRAS. 

"  To  which  gallery  did  you  go  to-day  ?" 

Slowly  and  dreamily : 

"Yes;  my  lady?" 

"  The  Borghese,  the  Collona,  or  the  Badin — which  one?"  sharply. 

"  No,  my  lady!" 

"What — to  none  of  them?  Then  where  did  you  go?  What 
paintings  did  you  see  ?  " 

"Yes,  my " 

"  Don't  '  my  Lady '  me  so  much,  Sullivan,  but  answer  my  ques- 
tion." 

"I I — beg  your  pardon,  my  Lady,  I  did  not  quite  catch  what 

your  Ladyship  said  ?  " 

"I  asked  you  to  which  gallery  you  went  to-day,  and  what  you 
saw." 

"  Went  to-day?"  repeated  Lucy  slowly  and  absently.  "  I  don't 
quite  know.  It  was  all  among  strange  streets,  and  I  think  I  wan- 
dered about  and  lost  my  way." 

"  Where  are  your  wits,  Sullivan?  You  don't  seem  to  know  what 
you  are  saying,"  said  Lady  Amtenhurst,  and  looking  up  she  caught 
sight  of  Lucy's  face  reflected  in  the  glass,  and  noticed  for  the  first 
time,  her  extreme  pallor,  heavy  eyes,  and  drooping  mouth.  "  Good 
heavens !  what  a  pale  face !  Are  you  ill  ?  " 

"  Oh,  no,  my  Lady:  only  a  headache,"  pressing  her  cold  hands  on 
her  hot,  throbbing  temples.  "I  cannot  think,  it  aches  so  badly, 
that  is  all,  my  Lady;  and  please  excuse  me  if  I  am  a  little  stupid." 

"Poor  thing.  You  really  look  ill.  There,  that  will  do — no,  I 
can  do  everything  else  myself  very  well.  Miss  Courtenay  will  be 
waiting  for  you,  and  then  you  had  better  get  to  bed  as  fast  as  you 
can.  I  am  afraid  you  have  taken  cold." 

Miss  Courtenay  was,  on  this  evening,  as  Lucy  had  already  had 
some  evidence,  in  one  of  her  disagreeable  and  unamiable  moods. 
Her  temper,  at  best,  was  not  the  most  angelic,  although  in  her  own 
estimation  she  needed  but  wings  to  complete  her  fitness  for  a  celes- 
tial habitation.  Character  she  had  none — imaginations  many.  Con- 
stant novel  reading,  acting  upon  a  mind  naturally  imaginative  and 
a  trifle  weak,  had  led  her  to  draw  comparisons  between  herself  and 
every  heroine  of  romance  from  Bulwer  to  "  Ouida," — comparisons 
which  ended  in  a  firm  conviction,  that  she  was  formed  for  one,  and 
that  each  and  all  of  their  good  qualities — with  none  of  their  bad — 
were  embodied  and  exemplified  in  herself.  But  certainly,  her  prac- 
tice was  not  in  accordance  with  her  manifold  precepts,  imagination 
not  being  quite  strong  enough  to  carry  her  beyond  the  verge  of 
mere  assertion  into  actual  proof  by  action  of  the  truth  and  sincerity 


BEHIND  THE  ARRAS.  169 

of  her  professions;  yet  strangely  enough  she  never  seemed  conscious 
of  failure  in  performance,  but  still  remained  firmly  convinced  of 
her  own  perfection. 

She  was  reading  before  the  fire  in  her  room  when  Lucy  made  her 
appearance. 

"  So  you  have  come  at  last,"  she  snapped  out,  throwing  her  book 
into  a  corner,  and  seating  herself  at  the  dressing-table.  "  Of  course 
Lady  Amtenhurst  had  to  keep  you  to  put  in  the  last  pin  for  her,  and 
will  still  expect  me  to  be  ready  in  time.  Gracious!  you  needn't  pull 
my  hair  out  by  the  roots.  I  want  puffs  and  curls.  Here,  pick  up 
that  book  first,  and  give  it  to  me.  Now,  go  on." 

A  long  pause,  while  Miss  Courtenay  read,  and  Lucy's  fingers 
worked  slowly  and  painfully. 

"  Those  puffs  are  frightful,  Sullivan!"  she  cried  at  last,  looking 
up  suddenly.  "  Take  them  all  down  this  minute,  and  make  a 
braided  coronel." 

Then  she  read  once  more  while  Lucy  with  aching  head  and  break- 
ing heart  worked  on.  Another  glance  in  the  glass. 

"  The  braid  is  too  rough,  I  tell  you;  do  it  over  again." 

Lucy  silently  obeyed,  and  while  her  difficile  young  mistress  read 
on,  finished  th'e  task. 

Miss  Courtenay  raised  her  eyes  again  from  her  book  and  contem- 
plated herself  with  every  imaginable  pose  of  the  head  for  five  min- 
utes at  least.  Then  in  a  pettish  whimper : 

"  It  is  not  becoming,  after  all,  so  I  will  have  the  puffs  and  curls." 

The  puffs  and  curls  were  just  completed,  when  Lady  Amtenhurst 
came  in,  preventing,  no  doubt,  by  her  presence  another  change  in 
her  niece's  coiffure. 

"  Now,  my  dear  aunt,  don't  hurry  me,  please.  It  is  all  Sullivan's 
fault  if  I  am  late.  I  never  saw  any  one  so  awkward  as  she  is  to- 
night; her  fingers  are  all  thumbs.  Sit  down  there  before  the  fire, 
and  while  she  dresses  me,  I'll  tell  you  a  bit  of  news.  The  waist  be- 
fore the  skirt,  always,  Sullivan.  What  do  you  mean?"  with  a 
stamp  of  the  foot. 

"Don't  be  cross,  Edith;  the  poor  girl  is  not  well,"  said  Lady  Am- 
tenhurst. 

"  It's  her  own  fault  for  going  out  in  the  rain  and  mud — to  look 
at  pictures,  forsooth.  I  never  feel  any  sympathy  for  fools.  You 
know  that  old  humbug,  what's-his-name,  in  the  next  passage,  who  has 
been  dying  ever  since  we  came  back?  "Well,  as  I  was  passing  this 
afternoon  I  stopped  a  minute  to  inquire  how  he  was.  He's  not 
dead  yet,  and  his  daughter,  would  you  believe  it— Oh!  good  gra- 
cious, Sullivan,  do  you  want  to  pull  my  hair  all  down  again  with 
those  hooks  ?" 


170  BEHIND   THE  A  ERAS. 

"  I  ain  glad  to  hear  the  poor  old  man  is  better,  for  his  daughter's 
sake,  if  not  for  his  own." 

"  I  didn't  say  he  was  better.  I  simply  said  he  wasn't  dead.  As 
for  his  daughter,  I  wouldn't  waste  any  compassion  on  her.  She 
seems  wonderfully  cheerful.  Would  you  believe  it,  she  positively 
smiled,  while  I  stood  there  with  as  long  a  face  as  I  could  manage, 
thinking  it  the  correct  thing  on  such  an  occasion.  If  it  were  Flossy, 
my  poodle,  that  was  sick,  /  should  be  quite  overcome  with  grief,  but 
I  suppose  it's. the  way  with  these  Americans;  they  have  no  feeling. 
Perhaps  it  would  be  better  for  me  if  I  was  not  so  sensitive.  Unfor- 
tunately, on  the  contrary,  I  am  all  heart,  all  feeling  and — Good 
heavens!  Sullivan,  do  you  take  me  for  a  pin-cushion?" 

"But  what  is  your  bit  of  news,  my  dear?"  asked  Lady  Amten- 
hurst. 

"  I  will  tell  you,  if  you  will  allow  me.  She  came  to  the  door 
grinning  and  grimacing,  as  I  told  you,  and  hardly  giving  herself 
time  to  say,  '  her  father  was  in  less  pain,  thanks',  when  she  blurted 
out  with  even  a  broader  grin — almost  a  giggle,  in  fact — that  Mr.  In- 

golsby Oh!  do  you  want  to  murder  me,  Sullivan?  It's  lucky 

that  pin  had  a  head — or  something  to  stop  it.  I  wish  you  would  be 
more  careful.  Where  was  I?  This  awkward,  clumsy  thing  keeps 
putting  me  out  so.  Oh,  yes.  She  blurted  out  that  Mr.  Ingolsby 
had  come  at  last,  and  she  was  so  happy — so  happy.  Did  you  ever 
hear  such  a  thing!" 

"  Who  is  Mr.  Ingolsby,  my  dear?" 

"  Oh,  you  know.  I  met  him  at  the  Ogilvie's  last  year.  A  hand- 
some, manly-looking  fellow,  with  the  loveliest  violet  eyes.  But  of 
course  you  never  notice  those  things.  The  man  whom  they  all  said 
was  engaged  to  that  runaway  Egerton  girl — you  remember.  I  never 
believed  it  though — never.  Betwixt  you  and  me,  aunty  dear,  I 
think  he  was  awfully  spoons  on  me — and  I  never  gave  him  the  least 
encouragement.  But  that's  always  the  way  with  men:  the  more 
you  snub  them,  the  more  they  like  you.  They  do  say  some  girls  are 
the  same  way,  though  I  can  scarcely  credit  it.  Were  any  man — no 
matter  how  I  loved  him — to  offer  me  a  slight,  that  would  be  the  last 
of  it  between  us,  I  can  tell  you— my  necklace,  Sullivan — I  hate  a 
spaniel's  nature  in  a  girl.  Did  I  say  necklace  or  bracelets  ?  Be 
good  enough  to  give  me  my  necklace,  will  you,  and  don't  stand 
there  looking  vacantly  into  empty  air  ?  And  now  he's  engaged 
to  this  American  girl—father's  rich,  of  course — at  least  she  told  me 
before  we  went  to  Naples  that  she  was  engaged — confiding  little 
idiot — and  I  suppose  it  must  be  to  this  Ingolsby,  she  went  into  such 
ecstasies  about  his  coming,  as  I  told  you.  What  on  earth  is  the  mat- 


BEHIND  THE  AREAS.  171 

ter  with  you,  Sullivan  ?  Can't  you  stand  without  clutching  the  bed- 
post like  that  ?  Now,  my  bracelets.  Isn't  it  romantic  ?  father  dying 
in  a  strange  land — consent  given — absent  lover  called  to  take  his 
bride,  and  the  old  man's  dollars — a  marriage  by  his  death-bed — 
bless  you,  my  children — et  cetera,  et  cetera,  et  cetera.  Bracelets, 
1  told  you — not  slippers.  My  gloves  too.  Ingolsby  is  a  fortunate 
fellow,  I  think,  for  besides  the  father's  money,  the  girl  is  rather 
pretty,  though  I  confess  to  admiring  blondes  far  more,  myself," 
with  a  side-glance  at  the  looking-glass.  "  Are  those  my  gloves?  If 
you  are  not  enough  to  try  the  patience  of  Job!  Give  me  my  fan, 
and  don't  look  for  it  among  my  boots.  I  am  thankful  to  get  from 
under  your  awkward  hands  at  last,  and  I  feel  as  though  my  clothes 
had  been  thrown  at  me,  as  indeed  they  have  been.  If  I  was 
not  naturally  good-tempered,  I  do  believe  you  would  have  made  me 
cross.  Put  away  all  those  things,  and  you  had  better  pack  my 
trunks,  for  we  may  have  to  leave  here  to-morrow,  if  the  weather 
changes.  Come  auntie,  I'm  ready."  And  Miss  Courtenay  swept 
from  the  room,  without  a  thought  of  kindness  for  poor  suffering 
Lucy,  to  play  the  angel  amongst  strangers. 
Lady  Amtenhurst  staid  a  moment  behind. 

"Never  mind  those  trunks  till  to-morrow,"  she  said  kindly. 
"You  look  dreadfully  sick,  poor  girl.  Button  this  glove  for  me, 
please.  How  hot  and  feverish  your  hands  are,  and  they  were  so 
cold  a  short  time  ago,"  she  added,  with  real  concern.  "You've 
caught  a  bad  cold,  child,  and  must  take  some  gruel;  ring  and  order 
some  made,  and  go  directly  to  bed." 

"  Do  come,  auntie  !"  sounded  from  the  hall. 

"  Do  as  I  tell  you,"  said  Lady  Amtenhurst,  stopping  in  the  door- 
way for  a  parting  admonition.  "Do  not  pack  a  thing  to-night." 
Then  she  followed  her  niece,  and  Lucy  was  left  alone  with  her  con- 
fused thoughts. 

At  once  she  set  to  work  packing. 

"  It  is  better  to  have  it  over  and  done,  for  to-morrow  I  may  not  be 
able,"  she  thought.  "I  feel  so  strange— as  though  reason  were 
going  from  me."  And  as  she  bent  over  her  work,  while  the  objects 
about  her  whirled  and  danced,  and  a  cord  seemed  to  be  tightening 
across  her  forehead,  she  wondered  vaguely  to  herself,  why  it  was 
that  she  placed  such  faith  in  the  truth  of  what  Edith  Courtenay  had 
said.  It  might  all  be  but  an  idle  exaggeration  of  hastily  assumed 
facts.  Ah,  but  had  not  she  herself,  seen  and  heard  with  her  own 
eyes  and  ears  ?  There  was  corroboration. 

'  On  any  other  subject  she  would  have  doubted;  but  on  this  one 
that  concerned  her  so  nearly— so  dearly—she  accepted  every  trifle  as 
a  proof  of  what  it  brought  untold  agony  to  believe. 


172  BEHIND  THE  ARRAS. 


CHAPTER   XVI. 

Peace  hath  her  victories 
No  less  renowned  than  war. 

—  "  Samson  Agonistes." 

iISPOSITION  is  inborn,  unchangeable  this  side  the  grave. 
Character,  on  the  contrary,  formed  alike  by  every  trivial  cir- 
cumstance and  great  event,  at  first  a  diamond  in  the  rough> 
is  dependent  mainly  on  those  who  shape  it  for  its  lustre. 

"Wrought  upon  in  a  bungling  fashion  'tis  ruined;  formed  by  a 
master  hand  its  beauty  is  assured;  and  the  sharper  the  instruments 
lent  by  Providence — sorrow — privation — sickness — loss — the  clearer 
are  its  hidden  beauties  brought  to  light,  and  the  nearer  it  approaches 
to  perfection.  Yet  there  are  those,  the  exceptional  provers  of  the  rule, 
totally  devoid  of  stamina,  upon  whom  nothing  has  a  lasting  effect; 
not  that  they  are  adamant,  but  so  impressionless,  as  it  were,  from 
the  very  excess  of  their  ductility,  that  the  occurrences  of  every  pass- 
ing moment  sway  them  by  their  influence,  and  wounds  which  seem 
to  penetrate  to  the  core,  are  quickly  healed,  and  no  effort  of  fortune 
can  form  a  scar  upon  the  surface.  Wavering  and  uncertain  as  a 
flickering  light,  they  are  the  sport  of  circumstances,  be  their  disposi- 
tion what  it  may.  Character  and  disposition  are  without  doubt 
strongly  combined,  yet  art  can  separate  the  two,  and  mold  the  one 
while  it  has  no  direct  power  over  the  other. 

Take  a  little  child  born  of  fiercely-passioned  parents — teach  it,  train 
it;  the  character  formed,  will,  in  a  manner,  control  the  disposition 
it  no  doubt  inherits,  by  the  knowledge  of  right  and  wrong,  though 
the  instincts  of  passion  are  still  there,  powerful  to  break  all  bounds 
when  temptation  comes.  Ingratitude  and  the  world's  baseness 
harden  a  truly  benevolent  man  bat  in  appearance.  Within  the 
fence  of  distrust,  the  generous  heart  still  lives,  and  impulses  of 
good  are  as  strong  as  ever,  though  restrained  by  the  belief  gained 
by  a  sad  experience,  that  they  will  meet  with  no  response. 

Who  has  not  met  with  gentle  kindness  in  those  renowned  for 
hardihood  and  strength  of  will,  as  in  the  timid  and  shrinking  and 
infirm  of  purpose;  and  are  not  the  weak  and  vacilating  often  as 
cruel  as  those  of  sterner  make?  Though  each  is,  in  a  degree,  under 
the  influence  of  the  other,  character  and  disposition  are,  therefore, 
not  inseparable.  Each  distinct  in  itself,  they  go  rather  hand-in-hand 
together;  character,  when  rightly  formed  and  molded,  holding  in 
check,  guiding  by  its  intellectual  vigor— if  not  indeed  keeping  sub- 


BEHIND  THE  ARRAS.  173 

servient  to  its  dominion— the  animal  propensities,  the  natural  bent 
of  disposition,  be  they  good  or  bad. 

Of  a  naturally  good  disposition,  anxious  to  find  the  right  course, 
but  apt  to  be  led  astray  by  an  over-sensitiveness,  Lucy's  character, 
forming  almost  completely  of  itself,  could  not  be  perfect.  With 
strength  in  herself  to  change  it  to  a  certain  extent,  she  had  mastered 
passionate  outbreaks  of  temper.  But  something  more  was  required 
to  make  her  what  she  should  be,  and  sorrow  and  trouble  had  pre- 
pared the  way  for  the  greatest  of  all  reformers,  sickness;  and  the 
chances  were  that  with  courage  to  persist  in  the  changes  wrought 
by  this  messenger  of  Providence,  lasting  benefit  to  her  character 
would  be  the  result.  All  unknown  to  herself  she  had  been  strug- 
gling between  life  and  death;  and  now  when  she  had  returned  to 
consciousness,  and  her  eyes  rested,  at  first  vacantly,  but  with  grow- 
ing perception,  upon  all  the  inevitable  appurtenances  and  untidi- 
ness of  a  sick  room,  her  great  weakness  was  no  longer  a  marvel  to 
her.  Where  she  was — with  whom — what  had  ailed  her — she  knew 
not.  Everything  about  her  was  strange  and  unfamiliar.  That  she 
had  been  sick  and  well  cared  for  was  evident,  and  with  so  much 
knowledge  she  was  satisfied  to  close  her  eyes  once  more,  and  with 
no  thought  in  her  mind  but  of  present  passive  comfort,  perfectly 
content  to  rest  quietly,  almost  unconsciously  in  the  coolness  and 
silence  of  the  darkened  room. 

Gently  as  an  infant  she  breathed;  sometimes  she  slept,  sometimes 
stirred — not  in  pain,  but  to  relieve  the  tedium  of  perfect  comfort,  by 
a  change  from  one  restful  position  to  another,  revelling,  as  it  were, 
in  the  very  abundance  of  ease. 

Presently  her  hand  passed  into  a  strong  grasp;  fingers  pressed  her 
pulse.  It  was  too  great  an  effort  to  raise  her  eyelids.  A  murmur 
of  voices  fell  softly  upon  her  ear,  and  then  footsteps  passed  from 
the  room.  Another  hand  was  upon  "hers,  but  this  time  soft  and 
cool,  and  a  light  kiss  fell  upon  her  brow.  In  an  instant  her  black 
eyes,  now  languid  and  weary,  were  opened  and  gazing  up  on  the 
face  bent  over  her. 

"Dear  child,"  murmured  Lady  Arntenhurst's  gentle  voice,  "I 
am  so  thankful  you  have  been  spared.  Do  not  fret  and  worry  your- 
self with  idle  thoughts,  for  I  will  tell  you  everything  when  you  are 
strong  enough  to  listen.  Go  to  sleep  now,  darling,  and  you  will  be 
well  all  the  sooner." 

The  days  went  by  in  quick  succession,  and  as  Lucy  gained  in 
strength,  crowding  thoughts  came  pressing  on  her  mind.  When 
the  first  apathy  was  over,  she  found  that  her  black  wig  was  gone! 
The  discovery  of  that  fact  brought  to  her  the  recollection  of  her 


BEHIND  THE  ARRAS. 

disguise,  and  then  all  the  forgotten  past  flashed  quickly  up  before 
her.  The  vision  of  the  stormy  day  in  Rome  came  too;  but  to  her 
wonder,  it  brought  no  pang.  She  was  still  too  weak  to  feel  in- 
tensely; but  as  strength  grew,  an  aching  pain  that  she  could  not 
master  came  gnawing  at  her  heart,  and  she  lay  and  thought,  and 
showed  no  wish  to  speak.  The  doctor,  a  French  physician  resident 
in  Florence,  was  surprised— annoyed.  Her  recovery  was  slower 
than  he  wished  for — had  expected.  It  was  strange;  he  could  not 
account  for  it.  Would  the  "young  rnees"  tell  him  how  she  felt? 
"Was  there  anything  that  troubled  her  mind  ?  She  would  be  well  in 
time,  she  said,  and  turned  away  her  head. 

Such  a  state  of  things  could  not  last.  Dr.  Latour  insisted  that 
she  should  leave  her  bed.  In  obedience  to  his  mandate,  and  as- 
sisted by  an  old  nurse,  she  rose,  and  day  after  day,  lay  upon  the  sofa, 
propped  up  by  pillows,  to  outward  appearance  still  weak  and  faint. 
Lady  Amtenhurst  with  anxious  solicitude  proposed  a  drive — a  walk 
even,  across  the  room,  leaning  upon  her  arm?  No;  she  preferred 
perfect  rest  and  quiet.  Would  she  not  like  to  talk,  to  be  told  how 
she  came  where  she  was,  to  have  the  blank  in  the  past  filled  up  ? 

"Not  now,  please,"  she  would  answer  with  a  beseeching  look. 
"By-and-bye  I  should  like  to  talk  and  give  some  explanation  of  my- 
self, as  well  as  hear  all  about  my  sickness.  But  not  now :  I  am  not 
able." 

Then  she  would  lapse  into  dreamy  silence  and  Lady  Amtenhurst 
would  go  away  in  despair.  Dr.  Latour  was  a  nervous,  irritable 
man,  albeit  a  clever  practitioner,  and  the  tardy  recovery  of  a  patient 
always  put  him  out  of  the  little  patience  he  possessed,  especially 
when  the  delay  was  unaccountable.  "  Dis  is  absurd,  young  Mees," 
he  said  to  Lucy  once.  "  Uzzer  people  have  had  ze  brain  fevaire, 
and  got  well — so — while  I  snap  my  fingaires.  You  are  young — you 
have  one  good  constitution.  Why  then  is  it  zat  you  fail  to  find 
strong  hels  ?  Sacre  tonnerre  I  because  you  have  not  what  ze  Engleese 
call  ze  '  vim/  Quite  sure,  it  is  in  yourself  to  say,  'I  will  be  seek  or 
I  will  be  well/  You  say,  '  I  will  be  seek/  and  lie  here.  Parbleu! 
young  Mees,  you  are  one  grand  absurdity :  you  have  nosing  to  ail 
you,  and  you  play  to  be  ze  invalide.  Stand  up — dance — seeng — 
laugh — play  on  ze  piano — go  out  to  drive  and  walk — talk  and  be 
gay — zat  is  ze  way  to  get  well.  You  mope  yourself  here  all  ze  day, 
and  quite  sure,  you  always  be  no  bettaire." 

Lucy  raised  her  drooping  head. 

"  Have  patience  with  me,  doctor,  and  I  will  do  all  you  wish.  Not 
now,  for  I  cannot,  but  by-and-bye." 

"Ah,  dis  '  by-and-bye ' — dis  '  have  patience!'    You  take  all  I  have, 


BEHIND   THE  ARRAS.  175 

and  sacre  tonnerre  !  you  cry  for  more.  You  have  one  grand  insan- 
ity! Bon  jour,  young  Mees;  when  ze  doctaire's  advice  is  refused,  ze 
^loctaire  is  in  ze  way/'  and  indignantly  the  old  fellow  rushed  from 
the  room.  How  little  he  understood  the  workings  of  her  mind! 

The  next  day  he  returned,  thoroughly  determined  that  extreme 
measures  should  be  taken  to  rouse  her  from  her  apparent  lethargy. 
But  what  was  his  surprise — his  "  grand  satisfaction  " — to  find  a  light 
in  her  eyes  and  a  faint  color  in  her  cheeks.  She  laughed,  she 
chatted,  she  jested  with  the  light-heartedness  of  a  merry  school  girl, 
and  the  sense  of  returning  happiness  within  seemed  to  lend  a  strange 
beauty  to  her  face,  and  brought  back  all  its  lost  dimples.  She  gave 
a  promise  to  drive  out  the  next  day,  and  the  doctor  went  away  en- 
chanted. 

Something  had  prevented  Lady  Amtenhurst  from  paying  her 
usual  early  visit  to  Lucy's  room;  but  the  doctor  had  scarcely  gone 
when  she  came  hurrying  in.  Lucy  sprang  up  to  greet  her  with  a 
smile,  and  so  delighted  was  her  Ladyship  at  the  marvelous  change 
-in  her  sad  face,  that  she  threw  her  arms  around  her  and  kissed  her. 
"  My  dear,  dear  child,  how  much  better  you  look  this  morning.  It 
was  so  good  of  you  to  try  and  rouse  yourself.  We  shall  have  you 
well  now,  in  a  few  days.  I  am  so  glad  I  prevailed  upon  the  doctor 
to  spare  this,"  she  said,  smoothing  back  Lucy's  hair  from  her  fore- 
head. "  He  had  ordered  it  all  to  be  cut  off.  It  would  have  been  a 
sin." 

Tears  were  in  Lucy's  eyes  as  Lady  Amtenhurst  sat  down  beside 
her  on  the  sofa, 

"You  have  been  so  good  to  me,"  she  said.  "I  don't  deserve 
your  kindness,  indeed  I  don't,  for  I  have  been  such  a  wicked,  wicked 
girl." 

"  Oh,  no,  my  dear,  I  cannot  believe  that,  although  I  do  not  think, 
in  regard  to  one  matter,  that  you  have  done  wisely." 

"  You  know  who  I  am  then  ?  "  asked  Lucy. 

«<Yes — that  is,  I  think  I  do,"  said  Lady  Amtenhurst  smiling. 
"  When  you  were  delirious  you  raved  about  different  people,  your 
own  hard  fate  and  fear  of  discovery;  and  when  I  found  your  black 
hair  was  a  wig,  and  knowing  that  Lucy  Egerton  was  a  blonde,  I 
guessed  how  it  was.  You  are  she,  are  you  not,  dear?" 

"  I  was  once,  but  am  not  now,"  Lucy  replied,  looking  down. 

"  Nonsense,  Lucy— I  may  call  you  Lucy?  I  had  hoped  that  all 
those  delusions  had  vanished — that  you  no  longer  harbored  those 
foolish  ideas." 

"You  do  not  understand  me,  dear  Lady  Amtenhurst,  and  you 
cannot  until  I  have  told  you  all  my  story,  and  who,  and  what  I  am." 


BEHIND  THE  ARRAS. 

"You  are  excited,  my  dear  child,  and  it  is  perhaps  not  well  for 
you  to  talk.  Lie  down  and  rest,  and  don't  think  any  more  of  this 
unpleasant  subject." 

"You  think  my  mind  is  wandering,"  said  Lucy,  meeting  Lady 
Amtenhurst's  anxious  look  with  a  smile.  "Put  your  hand  on  my 
forehead  and  feel  how  cool  it  is.  It  will  be  a  great  relief  to  me  to 
tell  you  all." 

"  Very  well,  Lucy,  as  you  please.  But  let  me  arrange  these 
pillows  more  comfortably  for  you."  And  Lady  Amtenhurst  sat 
down  to  listen  with  a  rather  dubious  air,  not  doubting  that  the  fever 
had  returned  to  the  convalescent. 

As  briefly  as  possible  Lucy  told  her  of  the  discovery  she  had 
made  on  the  night  of  the  masquerade — of  her  hiding  in  the  house, 
and  overhearing  conversations — of  her  subsequent  flight  and  meet- 
ing with  Jolliffe  Tufnell  in  the  railway  train,  and  of  all  his  kindness 
to  her. 

"These  are  the  bare  facts,"  she  went  on,  "but  my  motives  in 
leaving  Bratton — oh,  Lady  Amtenhurst,  I  feel  as  though  I  could 
tell  them  to  you,  if  you  have  patience  to  listen.  My  leaving  home 
as  I  did,  must  seem  such  a  foolish  act  to  one  who  does  not  know 
the  workings  of  my  heart." 

"Tell  me  all,  Lucy;  I  would  gladly  hear  it.  And,  my  dear,  there 
was  one  name  very  often  on  your  lips  when  you  were  ill — what  had 
he  to  do  with  all  this?" 

"  That  is  just  what  I  would  tell  you,"  Lucy  answered,  as  her  head 
rested,  oh,  so  naturally!  upon  the  other's  shoulder,  and  an  arm  was 
passed  affectionately  around  her  waist.  "  Can  you  not  guess  how  it 
was  ?  He  stole  away  my  heart,  and  then  cast  it  from  him,  and  it 
came  back  to  me  all  seared  and  scarred  and  bruised.  He  was  first 
in  my  thoughts  when  I  learned  who  I  was,  and  I  thought  how 
wicked  it  would  be  to  marry  him  under  a  false  position  and  a  false 
name,  or  to  tax  his  honor  by  telling  him  the  truth;  and  I,  in  my 
pride,  could  not  bear  that  he  should  be  ashamed  of  me. 

"  In  the  madness  of  the  moment  I  determined  to  run  away  and 
hide — where,  I  knew  not,  but  I  trusted  to  my  wits.  Then  I  over- 
heard what  strengthenedjn  stead  of  weakened  me — as  it  should  have 
done — in  this  resolve.  I  heard — oh,  it  was  cruel — I  heard,  wrhat 
came  as  the  last  great  blow.  He  told  Sir  Griffith  in  my  hearing  that 
he  could  never  marry  me!  It  was,  perhaps,  better,  I  fancied,  that 
I  should  thus  know  what  would  prevent  me  from  ever  returning; 
and  then  I  fled — fled  from  shame  of  my  birth,  in  anger  at  all  around 
me,  and  for  lack  of  strength  to  meet  him  again.  I  felt  as  if  I 
should  never  wish  to  return  and  renew  the  old  life,  never  again  see 


BEHIND   THE  AREAS:  177 

the  scenes  of  so  much  unhappiness,  and  in  my  selfishness  I  forgot 
the  sorrow  I  might  be  inflicting  upon  others  who  had  made  them- 
selves dear  to  me.  I  told  myself  that  no  one  cared  for  me  or  would 
feel  my  loss.  I  forgot  right  and  wrong  and  the  duty  I  owed  to 
those  who  had  made  me  what  I  was,  and  had  tried  to  make  me 
happy.  I  forgot  all  but  my  own  trouble  and  sorrow  and  fear  of  the 
world's  tongue,  and  kept  down  the  whisperings  of  conscience.  I 
was  my  own  mistress,  I  said;  my  father  had  cast  me  off;  I  had  a 
right  to  do  what  I  pleased  and  was  accountable  to  no  one  for  my 
actions,  if  I  earned  my  bread  honestly  and  injured  no  one.  So  I 
argued — so  I  have  argued  with  myself  since— but  I  have  not  been 
happy.  'Twas  an  argument  that  while  it  convinced  the  head,  failed 
to  reach  the  heart.  I  had  thought,  too,  that  I  had  conquered  my 
love  for  one  who  had  shown  himself  unworthy  of  it.  That  fearful 
day  in  Rome,  I  met  him,  and  when  I  knew  that  he  had  given  his 
heart  to  another,  I  found  to  my  cost  how  great  a  place  he  still  held 
in  mine.  I  have  been  very  ill,  but  I  know  not  how  I  came  to  be  so. 
That  I  have  been  near  to  death  I  feel  instinctively,  and  I  have  been 
roused  to  earnest,  serious  thought. 

"All  these  days  that  I  have  lain  here,  I  have  been  thinking  and 
repenting  and  forming  a  great  resolve.  I  see  my  error  now,  and  I 
would  atone  for  it.  I  am  going  back,  humbly  to  ask  forgiveness  for 
my  fault,  an.d  to  let  those  to  whom  the  right  in  its  truest  sense  be- 
longs, decide  what  I  am  to  do  in  the  future.  If  they  will  take  me 
back,  gratefully  will  I  go.  If  they  send  me  to  my  father,  I  am  re- 
signed, and  determined  to  accept  the  decree.  If  they  tell  me  to  work 
I  will  do  it  gladly;  and  if,  as  I  richly  deserve,  they  cast  me  off  en- 
tirely, then — oh,  Lady  Amtenhurst — " 

"  Then  come  to  me,  child,  if  anything  so  unlikely  ever  happens," 
said  Lady  Amtenhurst,  kindly,  as  Lucy  faltered.  "In  my  house 
you  will  always  find  a  home.  Poor  child,  how  you  must  have  suf- 
fered! And  this  is  a  noble  victory  over  your  own  wrong  impulses. 
It  has  been  a  hard  trial,  but  I  have  no  doubt  a  wise  one,  sent  by 
Providence  to  chasten  and  subdue.  Do  not  lose  hope,  Lucy;  there 
may  be  a  bright  and  beautiful  future  before  you,"  she  added;  "a 
future  that  you  dream  not  of  now." 

"Ah,  no;  quietly,  peacefully  happy  it  may  be,  but  more  I  do  not 
—I  cannot  expect.  From  the  relief  I  feel,  now  that  I  have  decided 
to  give  up  my  own  will  to  others,  I  know  that  I  will  be  far  more 
contented  than  I  have  been.  Now  that  I  have  made  up  my  mind 
to  do  what  is  right,  and  that  I  feel  a  consciousness  of  some  little 
good  in  myself,  I  am  much  stronger  and  abler  to  bear  and  to  suffer. 
12 


178  BEHIND  THE  ARRAS. 

You  cannot  conceive  the  relief  of  renouncing  a  project,  that  your 
conscience  was  forever  condemning." 

"Ah,  Lucy,  'tis  the  error  of  young  people  to  believe  that  none 
have  experienced  such  suffering  as  their  first  trial  brings  them!  I 
can  understand  your  feelings  but  too  well,  and  give  you  my  fullest 
sympathy,  for  my  own  has  not  been  a  happy  lot.  But  my  chief 
sympathy  is  with  those  who  must  have  loved  you  as  a  daughter, 
and  mourned  for  you  as  one.  May  you  never  know  the  sorrow, 
darling,  of  losing  a  child  !  " 

"Dear,  dear  Lady  Amtenhurst,  have  I  given  you  pain?"  cried 
Lucy,  throwing  her  arms  around  the  other's  neck,  as  she  saw  the 
tears  well  up  into  the  soft,  dark  eyes:  "am  I  forever  to  give  pain 
to  those  I  love  best  ?  Oh,  Lady  Amtenhurst,  I  do  love  you  so 
dearly,  and  I  would  bring  smiles  to  your  lips  rather  than  tears  to 
your  eyes  I" 

"Then,  behold  them,  Lucy,"  she  said  smiling,  "and  invoked 
by  your  own  words.  Do  you  know  I  was  drawn  toward  you  from 
the  first,  and  although  I  could  not  imagine  why  it  was,  I  have  ever 
felt  a  certain  unwillingness  to  ask  you  to  perform  menial  duties. 
Your  disguise  was  excellent,  but  you  could  not  conceal  your  refine- 
ment. That  is  something  that  clings  to  one.  I  never  yet  saw  a 
person  who  could  assume  it,  nor  one  who,  having  it,  could  cast  it 
aside  at  will.  You  cannot  imagine  Edith's  surprise  and  consterna- 
tion when  she  heard  of  your  sudden  change  from  a  chrysalis  into  a 
butterfly.  She  is  very  anxious  to  see  you." 

"  Is  she?"  said  Lucy,  laughing.  "  Let  her  come  and  satisfy  her 
curiosity  to-morrow,  for  I  am  beginning  to  feel  tired  now.  I  hope 
she  bears  me  no  malice  for  having  detained  her  here  so  long — we 
are  in  Florence,  are  we  not?" 

"Yes.  Would  you  like  to  hear  how  it  all  happened — how  you 
were  taken  ill  ?  " 

"I  should,  indeed,"  Lucy  answered  eagerly.  "I  remember 
nothing  since  that  rainy  night  at  the  hotel  in  Home.  All  is  a  blank 
since  then  until  I  found  myself  here." 

"  I  tried  to  tell  you  all,  before  now,  dear,  but  you  would  not  hear," 
said  Lady  Amtenhurst.  "That  wet  day  in  Rome  which  you  speak 
of,  you  caught  a  violent  cold.  I  noticed  you  were  feverish  and  ill 
that  night.  The  next  day  was  bright  and  pleasant,  and  we  left  for 
this  place.  You,  poor  child,  insisted  upon  attending  to  your  duties, 
though  I  could  see  from  your  wild  manner,  that  the  fever  had 
already  begun  its  work. 

"  Before  we  arrived  here  your  mind  began  to  wander,  and  you  had 
to  be  lifted  from  the  carriage  into  the  hotel.  I,  myself,  nursed  you, 


BEHIND   THE  ARRAS.  179 

with  the  assistance  of  a  woman  whom  the  doctor  sent,  and  every 
one  has  been  so  kind  in  their  inquiries  after  the  young  English 
lady;  for  they  all  think  you  are  traveling  under  my  charge.  It  is, 
perhaps,  as  well  that  they  should  have  this  idea,  for  it  would  not  be 
pleasant  for  you  to  have  your  wild  freak  noised  about.  Do  you  in- 
tend to  write  to  your  friends  in  England  ?" 

"  Oh,  no;  I  want  to  go  to  them  and  take  them  by  surprise.  It 
will  be  harder  for  me,  I  know,  than  if  I  prepared  the  way  by  letters; 
but  it  is  only  right  that  I  should  feel  the  weight  of  their  displeasure 
when  I  so  richly  merit  it." 

"Very  well,  my  dear;  it  shall  be  as  you  please.  But  you  have 
talked  too  much,  I  fear.  We  must  not  forget  that  you  are  still  far 
from  strong;  and  that  flushed  face  reminds  me  that  I  am  not  to  al- 
low you  to  become  excited.  Lie  down,  child;  I  will  darken  the 
room,  and  get  a  book  and  read  you  to  sleep." 

With  a  great  weight  lifted  from  her  heart,  Lucy  lay  and  watched, 
with  loving  eyes,  the  kind  and  gentle  face  of  Lady  Amtenhurst,  and 
listened  to  the  words  she  read  until  they  became  a  distant  murmur 
in  her  ears,  as  her  eyelids  slowly  closed,  and  she  passed  off  gently 
into  dreamland. 


CHAPTER  XVII. 

Happy  those  beloved  of  Heaven, 
To  whom  the  mingled  cup  is  given, 
Whose  lenient  sorrows  find  relief. 
Whose  joys  are  chasten'd  by  their  grief. 


—  "Marmion.' 


•HAT  a  world  of  truth  is  expressed  in  that  little  French 
phrase  "  L'homme  propose  mais  Dieu  dispose!"  Never 
yet  did  an  event  occur  as  planned  or  pictured  by  man; 
and  still  he  schemes  and  toils  and  makes  his  programme 
for  the  future,  his  mind  ever  busy  with  visions  of  what  is  to  be, 
learning  only  by  repeated  experience,  the  fallaciousness  of  his 
hopes;  but  never  is  the  lesson  so  well  learned,  that  he  has  not  still 
some  slight  lingering  faith  in  the  complete  fulfillment,  eventually, 
of  his  designs. 

Lucy  was  young  and  inexperienced,  and  the  difference  in  her  pres- 
ent position  from  the  one  she  had  expected  to  occupy  when  her 
flight  was  planned,  left  her  with  no  doubt  as  to  the  result  of  her  reso- 
lution to  return.  The  Egertons  would  take  her  back,  and  she  would 
go  to  them  in  meekness  of  spirit,  and  lead  a  quiet  useful  life.  Such 
^would  be  the  future,  she  felt  convinced,  as  she  fell  asleep  that 


180  BEHIND   THE  ARRAS. 

bright  and  beautiful  day  in  Florence.  Would  her  slumber  have 
been  as  tranquil  had  she  known  what  thoughts  were  in  the  mind 
of  one,  who,  with  impatient  longings  to  see  her  eyelids  unclose, 
bent  lovingly  over  her  as  she  lay  ?  Ah !  who  can  doubt  the  good- 
ness which  allows  the  mind  such  rest,  when  great  and  unexpected 
changes  come  in  life,  that  it  may  gather  strength  to  bear  the  sud- 
den tidings  of  good  or  ill ! 

For  many  hours  Lucy  slept,  while  through  the  closed  blinds  of 
the  open  windows  came  the  subdued  hum  of  voices  from  the  Lung 
Arno,  oftentimes  lost  in  the  louder  sound  of  passing  vehicles;  and 
upon  the  hot  window  panes,  the  buzzing  of  flies  told  of  the  warmth 
without  and  enhanced  the  pleasant  coolness  of  the  rooms  by  their 
noisy  revel  in  the  intense  heat  beyond  the  boundary  of  the  Vene- 
tian blinds.  Beside  the  sofa  where  she  lay,  her  senses  unaffected 
by  the  drowsy,  slumber-inviting  surroundings,  patiently  watching 
and  waiting,  sat  Lady  Amtenhurst.  At  last  Lucy  stirred,  and 
opened  her  eyes;  and  as  they  rested  upon  the  gentle  face  bending 
down  so  near  her  own,  she  fancied  for  the  moment  that  her  illness 
was  once  more  upon  her.  Then  consciousness  returning,  remem- 
brance came,  and  she  answered  the  look  of  tenderness  with  a  smile. 
With  a  cry  of  joy,  Lady  Amtenhurst  threw  her  arms  about  the  half- 
risen  figure,  and  as  her  cheek  rested  against  the  soft  flushed  one  of 
the  girl,  her  tears  fell  on  Lucy's  face. 

' '  Lady  Amtenhurst,  what  is  the  matter  ?  "  was  all  Lucy  could  say, 
in  her  great  surprise. 

"  They  are  tears  of  happiness,  darling,  not  of  sorrow.  Try  to  join 
me  in  my  gladness,  if  you  can,  for  great  joy  has  come  to  me  to-day. 
Oh,  my  darling — my  darling!  'tis  a  joy  I  have  never  in  my  wildest 
moments  dared  to  hope  for." 

"And  may  I  not  ask  what  that  great  joy  is,  dear  Lady  Amten- 
hurst ?  "  asked  Lucy,  as  tears  of  sympathy  stood  in  her  eyes. 

"  I  was  admonished  not  to  excite  you,  my  child,  but  what  can  I 
do?  Oh,  Lucy,  I  must  tell  you!  While  you  were  asleep,  my  hus- 
band called  me  from  the  room — look  up  at  me,  darling — and  imparted 
to  me  the  tidings  which  have  brought  me  this  happiness.  When  I 
was  younger  than  you,  Lucy,  I  had  a  child — and  I  lost  it.  To-day 
I  know  that  it  is  alive,  and  once  more  to  be  my  own!  What  greater 
blessing  could  I  wish  ?  " 

A  thrill  of  wonder  and  undefined  pleasure,  and  a  feeling  she 
could  not  quite  understand — half  of  jealousy,  half  of  a  wild  intan- 
gible wish — passed  over  Lucy  as  she  looked  into  the  flushed, 
excited  face  above  her. 

As  she  lay  there  she  felt  a  keen  sense  of  shame  for  her  apparent 


BEHIND   THE  ARRAS. 

coldness  and  want  of  sympathy  with  her  friend's  new-found  happi- 
ness; but  it  was  an  utter  impossibility  for  her  to  express  in  words  all 
that  she  felt,  and  in  silence  she  waited  till  Lady  Amtenhurst  found 
voice  to  speak. 

"Yes,  Lucy,  I  will  tell  you  everything,"  she  said;  "everything 
from  the  very  first,  and  then  you  can  judge  how  great  must  be  my 
happiness.  I  will  tell  you  of  a  time  when  I  was  as  young,  and 
pretty,  and  lovable  as  yourself.  I  had  a  father,  then,  Lucy;  we 
were  alone  together  in  the  world,  and  all  in  all  to  each  other.  To 
others  he  was  cold  and  stern,  but  not  to  me.  He  was  a  man  of 
strong  passions,  but  he  kept  them  so  thoroughly  under  control  by 
the  power  of  his  will,  that  few  ever  guessed  with  what  intensity  he 
could  love  or  hate.  For  some  reason  that  I  never  learned,  the  bit- 
terest enmity  existed  between  him  and  my  husband's  father,  the  old 
Earl  of  Amtenhurst,  and  therefore  it  seemed  a  strange  freak  of  fate 
that  caused  him,  while  he  went  over  to  Ireland  on  business  one  au- 
tumn, to  leave  me  with  some  friends — the  Duncumbes  of  Lieceister- 
shire.  It  was  the  first  time  we  had  been  separated,  and  there  at 
Bletchleigh  Manor  I  met  Arthur  Courtenay,  Lord  Amtenhurst's 
second  son,  a  handsome  young  lieutenant  in  a  fashionable  Hussar 
regiment,  and  who,  among  others,  was  down  for  the  shooting. 
Knowing  my  father's  prejudice  I  tried  to  avoid  him;  but  people  are 
thrown  so  much  together  at  a  country  house,  and  he  sought  me  out 
so  persistently  that  I  found  it  impossible  to  succeed.  It  was  one  of 
the  tricks  that  Cupid  often  plays.  In  spite  of  duty  and  wishes  and 
fears,  my  unwilling  heart  opened  to  receive  him.  When  he  asked 
me  to  marry  him  I  told  him  of  my  father's  dislike  to  his  family.  He 
said  he  knew  of  it,  but  we  loved  each  other,  he  was  independent  in 
fortune  under  an  uncle's  will,  and  no  one  had  a  right  to  keep  us 
apart.  It  would  be  easy  to  obtain  my  father's  forgiveness,  once  the 
knot  was  tied. 

At  eighte'en  one  seldom  doubts  the  likelihood  of  success.  We 
were  married  in  secret,  and  I  trusted  to  my  powers  of  persuasion  to 
reconcile  my  father  to  the  match.  I  did  not  know  him  as  well  as  I 
thought.  His  first  passionate  outbreak  when  I  acknowledged  my 
act,  was  fearful.  He  cast  me  from  him,  bidding  me  go  to  my  hus- 
band. He  refused  to  listen  to  my  entreaties,  and  our  intercourse 
was  severed,  for  he  would  not  see  me  or  speak  to  me  again.  The 
barrier  that  thus  arose  between  us  destroyed  much  of  my  happiness, 
for  love  cannot  completely  absorb  the  pain  of  breaking  old  ties.  Nor 
did  I  have  my  husband  long.  We  had  been  married  but  four 
months  when  his  regiment  was  ordered  to  India.  My  physician 
would  not  allow  me  to  accompany  him,  as  I  was  unfit  to  bear  the 


132  BEHIND  THE  AREAS. 

climate  of  Bengal  at  that  season,  and  I  was  well  nigh  broken- 
hearted at  the  separation.  How  painful  was  our  parting  you  can 
imagine;  but  he  was  scarcely  gone  when  my  father  came  and  offered 
to  take  me  abroad.  I  was  surprised  and  delighted  at  the  idea  of  a 
reconciliation.  I  went  with  him,  and  our  old  life  was  renewed.  It 
would  have  seemed  as  though  the  past  few  months  were  a  dream, 
had  it  not  been  for  the  memory  of  Arthur,  my  husband,  and  the 
birth  here  in  Florence  of  my  child." 

"  Here  in  Florence!"  cried  Lucy,  as  the  recollection  of  Lady  Am- 
tenhurst's  antipathy  toward  the  place  flashed  across  her  mind. 

"  Yes,  dear;  it  is  an  extraordinary  coincidence,  is  it  not,  that  in 
its  birthplace,  the  place  where  it  was  lost  to  me,  after  nineteen  long 
years  I  find  my  child  again  ?  It  was  a  sacrifice  of  my  feelings  to 
come  here  now,  for  the  town  has  always  seemed  hateful  to  me  ever 
since;  but  I  came  to  please  Edith,  and  for  the  sacrifice  I  made  I 
have,  indeed,  received  a  blessed  reward.  "Well,  dear,  when  I  was 
nearly  recovered  from  my  illness,  I  was  told  that  both  my  baby  and 
my  husband  were  dead.  My  baby  had  lived  but  two  days  after  its 
birth,  and  my  husband  had  been  mortally  wounded,  in  an  engagement 
in  which  a  portion  of  his  regiment  had  taken  part  shortly  after  its  ar- 
rival in  India.  To  be  thus  bereft  of  husband  and  child  at  one  fell 
swoop,  as  it  seemed,  was  more  than  one  in  my  comparatively  weak 
condition  could  bear  up  under,  and  for  days  I  wavered  between  life 
and  death.  Health  and  strength  slowly  came  back  to  me,  and  as 
soon  as  I  was  able  to  travel  we  left  Florence  for  Rome. 

11  It  was  then  the  unhealthy  season  of  the  year,  but  I  never  thought 
of  that,  until  my  poor  dear  father  was  stricken  down  with  the  Roman 
fever.  It  seemed  as  though  fate  was  never  to  be  satisfied  with  my 
losses.  On  his  deathbed  he  said  something  to  me  that  I  could  not 
then  understand,  but  which  has  since  been  made  plain  to  me.  '  All 
connection  between  you  and  the  Amtenhursts  is  severed,'  he  said; 
*  and  I  can  die  happy  thinking  that  my  daughter  is  not  as  one  of 
them.  You  will  never  know  what  I  have  done  for  you,  child,  and 
what  care  and  anxiety  I  have  saved  you.  You  are  very  young,  and 
should  marry  again;  but  make  a  better  match  and  be  happy.'  I  re- 
turned to  England,  mourning  for  a  father,  a  husband,  and  a  child, 
believing  it  to  be  a  punishment  for  my  undutiful  conduct;  and  I  lost 
all  interest  in  life.  But  what  was  the  astounding  news  that  greeted 
my  return !  The  report  from  India  had  been  incorrect :  I  was  not 
a  widow,  for  my  husband  was  alive!  The  announcement  of  his 
death  had  been  premature.  He  had  been  dangerously  wounded  it 
was  true,  and  had  been  at  death's  door  for  weeks,  he  wrote  me,  but 
he  was  now  fast  recovering,  and  had  applied  to  be  invalided  and 


BEHIND   THE  ARRAS.  183 

sent  home.     The  next  steamer  from  Bombay  brought  him  to  me, 
looking  thin  and  pale;  but  I  had  my  Arthur  again,  and  was  happy. 
If  my  child  could  only  be  returned  to  me  in  the  same  manner,  I 
thought,  then  nothing  would  be  wanting  to  make  my  happiness 
complete.   But  it  was  not  to  be  then;  that  joy  was  reserved  by  Prov- 
idence to  gladden  my  heart  in  later  years,  as  it  has  this  day.     The 
months  slipped  quickly  by  while  Arthur  gradually  regained  his 
strength,  and  the  day  approached  for  him  to  leave  England  again 
to  rejoin  his  regiment.     'Twas  a  clay  that  never  came.     Two  weeks 
before  the  Transport  in  which  we  were  going  out,  (for  I  had  deter- 
mined to  accompany  him  this  time)  was  to  sail  from  Plymouth,  his 
elder  brother,  the  Earl,  was  thrown  from  his  horse  in  attempting  to 
force  the  animal  over  an  impossible  jump  in  a  steeple-chase  he  was 
riding,  and  received  injuries  from  which  he  died  in  a  few  hours;  and 
Arthur  thus  became  the  Earl  of  Amtenhurst.     Then  followed  years 
of  happiness,  unalloyed  save  by  the  remembrance  of  my  child — hap- 
piness as  perfect  as  can  be  known  in  this  world.     But  I  tire  you 
darling,  so  I  will  be  brief.     One  day  when  going  about  among  the 
tenantry,  I  noticed  a  strange  woman  whose  face  yet  seemed  familiar 
to  me.     She  had  come  to  visit  her  sister,  the  wife  of  one  of  Arthur's 
tenants,  and  I  fancied  it  was  but  the  resemblance  between  the  two 
sisters  that  had  struck  me.     But  the  next  day  she  came  up  to  the 
house  asking  to  see  me,  and  said  that  she  had  once  been  my  maid. 
"  I  remembered  her  then,  as  the  woman  whom  I  had  taken  to  the 
Continent  when  I  went  with  my  father,  and  who  had  been  with  me 
here  when  my  child  was  born.     She  said  she  had  a  secret  to  disclose 
that  had  weighed  heavily  upon  her  conscience  for  many  years.    She 
had  long  tried  to  find  me,  but  only  knowing  me  by  the  name  of 
Courtenay,  had  never  succeeded.     'Twas  a  secret  she  had  promised 
my  father  to  keep  from  me,  but  she  could  not  rest  contented  until 
she  told  me.     Imagine  my  surprise,  darling,  when  she  informed  me 
that  at  that  moment  my  child  might  be  alive !     I  don't  know  whether 
it  gave  me,  at  the  time,  most  pleasure  or  pain,  but  now  I  can  never 
cease  to  be  grateful.     She  told  me  a  long  story  of  how  the  very  day 
my  child  was  born,  the  intelligence  of  my  husband's  death  arrived,  and 
that  my  father  came  to  her  and  said  that  some  people  in  the  place 
who  had  recently  lost  their  child  were  going  to  adopt  mine.     She 
brought  it  to  them  that  evening  and  the  very  next  morning  she  was 
sent  home  to  England  by  my  father,  with  a  large  sum  of  money  in 
payment  for  her  promise  never  to  reveal  the  circumstance  to  me. 
The  woman  tried  to  excuse  herself  for  the  part  she  had  taken  in  the 
proceeding,  by  saying  that  she  had  a  large  family  to  support,  the 
money  was  something  she  could  not  resist,  and  that  she  thought  at 


BEHIND  THE  ARRAS. 

the  time  my  father  knew  what  was  best  for  me,  and  it  was  not  her 
place  to  question  his  acts.  Ah,  Lucy,  it  was  hard  to  forgive  her! 
I  told  my  husband  all,  and  in  trying  to  appease  his  indignation  I 
forgot  my  own.  "We  got  all  the  information  we  could  from  the  wo- 
man. The  name  of  the  people  to  whom  she  gave  the  child  was  Sil- 
liman;  that  was  all  she  knew  of  them  except  that  they  were  English. 
My  father  had  had  the  child  christened  before  parting  with  it,  call- 
ing it  Florence,  after  the  town  where  it  was  born.  What  a  strangely 
complicated  character  was  his!  He  thought  of  the  welfare  of  the 
child's  soul,  while  giving  no  heed  to  what  its  future  earthly  life 
might  be.  To  this  day  I  can  but  guess  from  his  last  words  what 
were  his  reasons  for  doing  as  he  did,  for  he  never  told  them  to  human 
being.  Thinking  Arthur  was  dead,  I  suppose  he  wished  to  break 
off  all  connection  with  the  family  of  Amtenhurst  at  once  and  for- 
ever, and  perhaps  thought  it  best  that  I  should  have  nothing  to  re- 
mind me  of  the  past  or  to  recall  the  hated  name.  Whatever  his 
reasons  were,  and  however  he  erred  in  judgment,  I  am  sure  he  had 
solely  my  good  at  heart. 

"With  these  slender  facts,  my  husband  immediately  started  for 
Florence.  The  Sillimans  had  gone  away.  With  great  difficulty,  he 
succeeded  in  tracing  them  from  place  to  place,  to  London,  where  the 
clue  was  broken.  We  advertised  and  employed  detectives,  and  at 
last  discovered  that  Silliman.  had  sailed  for  America  about  two 
years  after  receiving  the  child.  The  information  was  given  by  a 
man  who  had  made  the  passage  with  him  in  the  steamer  to  New 
York,  and  who,  on  his  return  to  England,  had  seen  our  advertise- 
ments. This  man  knew  no  more,  and  could  not  even  tell  us 
whether  he  had  a  wife  and  child  with  him  or  not.  They  had 
formed  a  slight  acquaintance  on  the  ship,  and  had  never  met  again 
after  parting  on  the  dock  in  New  York.  It  was  encouraging,  how- 
ever, to  have  learned  so  much,  and  my  husband's  solicitor  wrote 
over  at  once  to  institute  inquiries.  Arthur  even  crossed  the  ocean 
himself,  but  was  obliged  to  return  unsuccessful,  leaving  the  matter 
in  the  hands  of  a  lawyer.  Years  passed  and  we  lost  hope;  it  faded 
away  by  degrees,  and  at  last  passed  entirely  from  our  hearts.  Until 
to-day,  I  knew  no  more  than  what  I  have  told  you,  and  the  rest  of 
my  story  I  learned  from  my  husband  but  an  hour  ago,  for  he  told 
me  nothing  of  what  was  coming  to  light  in  America,  fearing  to  raise 
hopes  that  might  never  be  fulfilled.  The  lawyer  with  whom  the 
matter  had  been  left,  and  who  had  exhausted  every  means  of  tracing 
out  Silliman,  without  success,  went  to  reside  and  practice  his  pro- 
fession in  San  Francisco.  One  day  in  a  trial  in  which  he  defended 
some  man  who  was  being  tried  for  the  murder  of  a  gambler,  one  of 


BEHIND   THE  ARRAS.  185 

the  witnesses  was  an  Englishman  named  Silliman.  Remembering 
the  name,  he  sought  the  man  out,  and  questioned  him.  At  first  he 
answered  with  reluctance,  but  at  last,  after  a  promise  of  being  well 
paid  for  any  information  he  might  give,  made  a  full  statement,  which 
he  swore  to,  and  which  was  sent  over  by  the  lawyer  to  my  husband. 
His  statement  was  to  this  effect: 

"In  September,  18 — ,  the  month  and  year  I  was  here  with  my 
father,  he  and  his  wife  were  also  in  Florence.  Their  only  child,  an 
infant,  died  while  they  were  here,  and  shortly  after  its  death/ he  re- 
ceived an  anonymous  letter,  asking  him  if  he  and  his  wife  would 
take  a  child,  and  adopt  it  as  their  own.  If  so,  they  must  take  it  at 
once  to  England,  and  five  thousand  pounds  would  be  given  them. 

"  They  accepted;  the  child — a  golden-haired  little  girl  two  days 
old — and  five  thousand  pounds  in  Bank  of  England  notes  in  a 
packet,  were  brought  to  them  by  a  woman  who  would  not  answer 
any  questions.  He  and  his  wife  returned  to  England  taking  the 
child  with  them,  but  knowing  nothing  of  its  parentage,  and  rented 
a  place  near  Bratton,  the  owner  of  which  was  obliged  to  retrench  by 
living  on  the  continent  for  a  few  years.  Here  they  established  them- 
selves, slowly  winning  recognition  from  the  neighbors  roundabout. 
They  had  lived  thus  over  a  year,  when  Mrs.  Silliman  died  of  a  rapid 
decline,  and  her  husband's  funds  running  low,  he  determined  to  try 
his  fortune  in  America.  The  child  was  his  sole  encumbrance.  How 
you  tremble,  my  dear!  listen  quietly,  I  am  near  the  end  now.  Sir 
Griffith  Egerton,  who  was  one  of  his  neighbors,  and  whom  he  knew 
slightly,  was  reputed  to  be  a  benevolent  and  eccentric  man.  He 
had  recently  lost  his  only  son.  Silliman  went  to  him,  told  him  how 
he  was  situated,  of  his  lack  of  money,  and  his  intention  of  going  to 
America— a  child  of  eighteen  months  was  a  thing  it  would  be  im- 
possible for  him  to  take  with  him,  and  what  to  do  with  it  he  knew 
not,  unless  Sir  Griffith  would  consent  to  adopt  it  in  the  place  of  his 
own  lost  son.  Sir  Griffith  consented;  he  adopted  the  child,  chang- 
ing its  name  from  Florence  to  his  own  favorite  one  of  Lucy.  And 
so  it  was  that  Florence  Courtenay,  called  Florence  Silliman — not 
Sullivan— became  Lucy  Egerton !  My  daughter— oh,  my  daughter ! " 

Long  before  the  last  words  were  spoken,  mother  and  daughter 
had  been  clinging  to  each  other,  their  tears  mingling,  as  Lucy  mur- 
mured through  her  sobs:  "  My  mother— my  mother." 

Oh,  the  unspeakable  love,  and  peace,  and  joy  that  filled  Lucy's 
heart,  soothing  all  the  wounds  of  past  sorrow!  To  be  wrapped  in  a 
mother's  arms,  to  feel  warm  loving  kisses  pressed  upon  her  tearful 
eyes,  to  see  a  manly  form  enter  the  room  and  know  that  a  father 
stood  before  her,  and,  turning  toward  him  with  a  strange  sense  of 


186  BEHIND   THE  AREAS. 

shyness,  feel  herself  clasped  in  that  father's  embrace!  A  dream- 
surely,  a  dream !  and  she  trembled  at  thought  of  the  sad  awakening. 
But  'tis  no  dream,  Lucy.  Guided  through  mysterious  ways  to 
your  own  rightful  home,  a  haven  far  happier  than  any  in  your  wild- 
est dreams,  what  more  can  you  wish  for?  The  joyful  heart,  with  a 
little  pang  answers  quickly:  "  One  more  to  love  me — only  one!" 


CHAPTER  XVIII. 

Why  did  she  love  him  ?     Curious  fool,  be  still, 
Is  human  love  the  growth  of  human  will  ? 

— "Lara." 

VINGTON  COUKT  is  a  grand  old  place,  with  its  miles  and 
miles  of  undulating  park-land  studded  with  oaks,  larches, 
elms  and  beeches,  stretching  away  on  one  side  to  the  dim 
blue-gray  hills,  and  on  the  other  to  the  cliff-bound  sea. 
At  the  head  of  its  mile  of  winding  beech-bordered  avenue  stands  the 
house,  a  great  red  brick  pile  of  the  time  of  Elizabeth,  that  nobly 
bears  its  -weight  of  years,  and  is  just  sufficiently  modernized  by  plate- 
glass  windows  and  internal  improvements  to  give  it  an  air  of  the 
comfort  and  luxury  of  advancing  civilization  without  detracting  in 
the  least  from  its  antique  beauty.  Here,  in  the  most  perfect  har- 
mony, taking  example  by  the  lives  of  the  master  and  mistress,  reign 
the  Lares  and  Penates;  and  not  a  spot  is  to  be  found  in  this  great 
mansion  to  which  exquisite  taste  in  the  arrangement  of  its  belong- 
ings does  not  lend  a  charm.  It  is  the  chief  feature  of  this  house — 
the  blending  of  minor  details  into  a  pleasingly  harmonious  unity. 

Look  into  the  dainty  breakfast-room,  where  the  morning  sun 
creeps  warmly  in  through  the  half-closed  blinds,  casting  bright  gold 
upon  the  carpet,  and  dancing  merrily  in  reflected  rings  upon  the  ceil- 
ing, lending  an  extra  whiteness  to  the  snowy  table-cloth,  extracting 
a  delicious  perfume  from  the  roses  which  cling  around  the  casement, 
and  peep  slyly  in  at  the  open  sash,  breathing  an  incense  through  the 
room — look,  and  if  the  sunlight  playing  among  the  curling,  golden 
hair,  dazzle  not  your  eyes,  you  will  see,  there  by  the  window,  bend- 
ing over  a  full-blown  rose,  a  girlish  figure,  robed  in  softly-falling 
folds  of  white,  with  a  gentle  face,  of  strength  and  sweetness,  con- 
tentment and  peace  contending  with  a  certain  sadness  of  expression, 
and  when  you  are  told  that  it  is  the  Amtenhurst's  newly-found 
daughter,  Lady  Florence  Courtenay,  you  can  scarcely  doubt  that 
here  stands  the  one  object  long  needed  to  complete  the  beauty  of 
the  entourage. 


BEHIND  THE  ARRAS.  187 

When  news  of  the  Amtenhursts'  good  fortune  spread  through  the 
county,  Avington  Court  was  the  scene  of  liveliest  rejoicing,  and  all 
day  long,  for  many  days,  crowds  of  people  had  come  streaming  to 
the  house  to  offer  congratulations,  and  gratify  their  curiosity  by  a 
glimpse  of  this  daughter.  All  went  away  more  or  less  pleased,  to 
discuss  manners,  appearance,  and  family  likeness,  and  each  and  all 
agreed  as  to  the  facts  that  she  was  unmistakably  like  her  father,  a 
lady,  and  evidently  well  educated. 

On  the  whole,  Florence's  advent  was  a  great  success,  although 
there  were  those  who,  of  course,  found  unkind  things  to  say;  and 
she  herself  was  intensely  amused,  and  not  a  little  pleased,  at  becom- 
ing such  a  lionne.  As  soon  after  her  illness  as  possible,  the  Amten- 
hursts had  returned  to  England,  changing  all  their  plans  for  the 
ensuing  spring.  They  had  remained  but  two  days  in  London,  and 
it  was  on  one  of  these  days  that  Florence,  driving  with  her  mother, 
from  whom  she  could  not  bear  to  be  parted,  even  for  an  hour,  lost 
from  her  finger  the  ring  that  I  had  given  her. 

Jolliffe  Tufnell  knew  nothing'of  their  arrival  till  he  met  Lord  Am- 
tenhurst  at  the  Club,  and  when  the  Earl  thanked  him  for  his  kind- 
ness to  his  daughter,  the  man's  astonishment  was  unbounded.  His 
lordship  asked  him  to  dine  in  Eaton-square,  that  he  might  bear 
the  whole  story,  and  in  delighted  surprise  he  listened  that  evening 
to  the  tale.  When  it  was  over,  he  drew  Florence  aside  to  tell  her, 
in  his  own  odd  way,  that  though  his  hand  was  still  at  her  disposal, 
he  gave  up  all  hope  of  her  accepting  it  now;  and  notwithstanding 
that  he  should  like  to  have  so  nice  a  little  wife,  his  happiness,  he 
candidly  avowed,  was  not  dependent  upon  her  answer. 

Laughingly,  she  thanked  him  for  his  kindness,  and  then,  with 
an  unfeigned  solemnity,  assured  him  of  her  determination  never  to 
marry.  And  so  it  came  about  that  they  made  a  compact  for  a  last- 
ing friendship. 

From  him  she  learned  that  the  Egertons  were  still  away  from 
home,  but  were  expected  back  very  soon. 

"  Miss  Lifford,"  he  said,  "  has,  I  think,  gone  to  meet  them;  at  any 
rate  she  has  left  Bratton,  and  I  do  not  know  where  she  is  to  be 
found." 

Florence  never  dreamed  that  the  house  in  town  would  be  pre- 
pared for  their  reception,  as  she  was  aware  of  Sir  Griffith's  distaste 
for  London  life.  Therefore,  it  happened  that  I  learned  nothing 
of  her  presence  in  town;  and  in  two  days  the  Amtenhursts  left  for 
Avington  Court. 

Thinking  of  her  old  friends,  and  all  their  kindness  to  her,  Flor- 
ence stood  caressing  the  rose,  and  it  was  not  till  her  father  came 


138  BEHIND  THE  ARRAS. 

close  beside  her,  that  she  was  aware  of  his  having  entered  the 
room. 

Lord  Amtenhurst  was  a  tall,  soldierly-looking  man,  of  a  command- 
ing air,  with  one  of  those  closely-shaven,  peculiar  faces,  which  in 
youth  make  a  man  seem  older  than  he  is,  and  in  riper  years  delude 
one  into  taking  much  from  his  real  age;  without  coldness  of  expres- 
sion, but  having  great  command  of  feature;  with  nothing  of  stern- 
ness, but  much  of  dignity,  in  his  manner;  without  guile  himself, 
but  a  keen  observer  of  humanity;  a  man  not  given  to  deception, 
but  never  to  be  deceived — few  men  disliked  him,  for  though  he  sus- 
tained the  dignity  of  his  position,  it  was  with  a  manner  free  from 
arrogance,  and  all  trusted  him,  for  all  knew  his  worth. 

As  he  took  his  daughter's  hands  in  his  and  smiled  down  into  her 
upturned  face,  the  sunlight  shining  upon  his  auburn  hair,  wonder- 
fully increased  the  likeness  between  father  and  daughter.  "  What 
were  the  thoughts  that  seemed  to  be  troubling  my  little  one  ?  "  he 
asked  her. 

As  she  looked  up  at  him,  she  longed  to  throw  her  arms  about  his 
neck,  and  tell  him  how  much  she  loved  and  revered  him;  but  it  was 
not  as  though  she  had  known  him  all  her  life,  she  still  felt  a  little 
timidity  in  manifesting  her  filial  affection.  So  she  simply  drew  him 
to  his  chair  and  brought  him  his  letters  and  the  morning  papers, 
chatting  away  the  while. 

"  Troublesome  ^thoughts  are  not  proper  guests  for  an  exquisite 
morning  like  this,  are  they,  papa?  They  really  remind  me  of  some 
people  who  come  into  the  midst  of  a  pleasant  group  with  long  lists 
of  grievances,  and  unpleasant  remarks,  and  unkind  little  speeches, 
casting  a  shade  where  all  before  was  bright;  and  they  are  quite  as 
difficult  to  exclude,  for  they  come  pushing  and  forcing  their  way  in 
spite  of  one.  Let  me  read  you  the  news,  before  mamma  and  Edith 
come  down,"  she  added,  unfolding  the  Times  and  seating  herself  on 
a  stool  at  his  feet. 

"  I  would  far  sooner. hear  what  your  thoughts  were  about." 

"What!  You  would  have  me  play  the  part  of  those  I  have  con- 
demned, and  parade  imaginary  troubles  in  the  midst  of  so  much 
brightness  ?  " 

"You  cannot  dim  the  sunshine,  Florence,  and  I  can  be  no 
duller." 

"Can  I  not?  See!  see!"  she  cried;  "a  cloud  passes  over  the 
sun  in  anticipation,  even." 

"  It  is  being  eclipsed  by  your  brilliancy,  little  one,"  he  retorted, 
pleasantly. 


BEHIND  THE  AERAS.  189 

"  It  hides  its  diminished  head,  lest  it  be  further  insulted  by  such 
comparisons.  But  won't  you  be  good  now,  and  let  me  read  to  you  ?  " 

"  No!  the  papers  can  wait,  but  my  pleasure  cannot;"  and  he  jest- 
ingly puckered  his  pleasant  brow  into  a  portentious  frown.  "  Con- 
fess now,  to  disloyal  thoughts." 

She  clasped  her  hands  across  his  knee,  resting  her  head  upon 
them  as  she  sat  at  his  feet;  and  all  her  gayety  gone,  replied: 

"  I  was  thinking  of  the  Egertons.  I  wish  so  much  that  they 
knew  of  my  good  fortune." 

"  They  do  know,  in  a  measure,"  he  said.  "As  I  told  you,  I  was 
sick  when  news  of  you  came  to  me  from  Silliman,  and  I  instructed 
my  solicitor  to  go  down  to  Bratton  in  my  place.  I  always  under- 
stood that  he  had  done  so,  but  arrived  too  late.  When  I  took  Edith 
up  to  town  the  day  before  yesterday  I  had  a  long  talk  with  him,  and 
as  we  are  on  the  subject  now  I  will  tell  you  what  I  learned.  Par-v 
kins  had  urgent  business  on  hand  which  would  not  allow  of  his  ab- 
sence, and  therefore  he  wrote  to  a  friend  of  his,  whom  he  knew  was 
staying  at  Bratton  Hall,  to  break  the  news  to  Sir  Griffith.  His  let- 
ter did  not  arrive  in  time  to  prevent  your  flight,  but  this  person  (I 
suppose  it  must  have  been  the  Mr.  Strutt  I  have  heard  you  mention 
— I  didn't  ask  his  name)  nevertheless  informed  Sir  Griffith  of  the 
fact  that  you  were  my  daughter.  So  you  see  that  they  know  who 
you  are,  and  have  given  up  all  hope  of  ever  again  claiming  you  as  a 
daughter.  Tufnell  relieved  their  minds  of  anxiety,  a  long  time  ago, 
by  writing  to  Sir  Griffith  that  you  were  safe,  well  and  happy. 
"What  more  can  you  wish  ?" 

Perhaps  it  may  be  as  well  for  me  to  say  here,  what  was  not  known 
to  me  for  some  time  yet,  that  though  Sir  Griffith  was  possessed  of 
these  facts,  for  some  private  reason,  or  it  may  have  been  from  a  mere 
freak  of  his  odd  nature,  he  did  not  impart  his  knowledge  to  either 
his  wife  or  me.  Had  he  but  told  what  he  knew  even  to  Jolliffe  Tuf- 
nell, Florence  might  long  before  have  found  her  parents;  but  all 
things  seemed  to  conspire  so  that  it  might  not  be  until  she  saw  the 
error  of  her  chosen  way,  that  she  should  regain  what  she  herself 
had  unwittingly  cast  aside  and  fled  from. 

Florence  was  thinking  while  her  father  spoke,  of  that  conversation, 
so  well  remembered,  heard  in  the  corridor  at  Bratton  Hall.  This 
letter  from  Parkins  could  not  then  have  reached  them.  Ingolsby, 
who  had  so  soon  after  learned  what  was  her  birth,  must  before  long 
know  of  her  reinstatement,  and  she  wondered  bitterly  if  he  would 
still  sneer  at  love  and  lowliness,  and  if  her  father's  coronet  would 
make  it  at  last  possible  for  him  to  extend  his  hand  to  the  girl  whom 
he  had  once  thought  too  far  beneath  him  for  that  honor.  She 


190  BEHIND   THE  AREAS. 

wanted  to  see  him  and  test  him;  yet  she  felt  that  whatever  way 
the  trial  ended,  it  could  bring  no  happiness  to  her.  If  he^resumed 
his  old  manner  and  tried  to  assert  pretensions  to  her  favor,  he 
would  be  far  too  despicable  any  longer  to  occupy  her  thoughts; 
but  if  he  loved  this  other  girl  and  was  true  to  her,  all  hope  for  her- 
self was  equally  at  an  end.  To  one  of  her  nature,  however,  the 
knowledge  that  her  love  was  not  misplaced,  even  though  hopeless, 
would  at  least  bring  a  strange  sort  of  proud  pleasure,  and  merely 
thinking  of  the  chance  of  its  possibility  brightened  the  expression 
of  her  face.  Glancing  around  the  cheerful  room,  and  up  in  her 
father's  face,  she  felt  ashamed  that  she  could  not  feel  perfectly 
happy  for  all  her  good  fortune;  and  determined  to  appear  so  at 
least,  that  she  might  not  pain  those  who  loved  her,  she  said,  smiling : 

"How  strangely  everything  has  come  about!  I  promise  you  not 
to  fret  any  more,  papa,  but  to  wait  patiently  for  all  things  to  come 
right  of  themselves,  as  my  efforts  in  the  past  seem  to  have  altered 
the  face  of  things,  and  but  increased  a  confusion  that  I  tried  to 
lessen."  As  she  rose  and  walked  to  the  window,  humming  the 
light,  sparkling  music  of  "La  belle  Helene,"  her  father's  thought- 
ful eyes  followed  her  across  the  room.  He  was  trying  to  under- 
stand his  only  child  and  found  it  no  easy  task,  sunshine  and  shadow 
followed  each  other  so  quickly  in  her  moods.  Just  then  Lady  Am- 
tenhurst  came  down,  her  presence  bringing  additional  warmth  and 
brightness  to  the  pleasant  room. 

"I  overslept  myself  this  morning,"  she  said,  returning  Florence's 
caress.  "  I  find  it  so  very  nice  to  be  once  more  in  my  own  happy 
home,  that  I  am  becoming  dreadfully  lazy.  What  news,  Arthur  ? 
You  have  not  yet  opened  your  letters ! " 

"I  had  quite  forgotten  them,"  he  replied  laughing,  and  as  they 
sat  down  to  breakfast,  he  began  to  look  them  over.  Two  begging 
letters,  three  on  business,  one  from  a  friend  put  aside  for  future 
reading,  and  then  came  one  which  brought  a  smile  to  his  lips. 

"Good  news  for  you,  Florence!  Parkins  writes  me  word  that  he 
hears  the  Egertons  are  in  town,  and  that  they  are  going  to  remain 
in  Park  Lane. 

Florence  answered  nothing,  but  her  face  expressed  all  her  pleasure. 

"Then  had  we  not  better  go  up  to  town  at  once,  Arthur?"  asked 
Lady  Amtenhurst;  "Florence  is  of  course  anxious  to  see  them." 

"Yes,  mamma,"  she  said,  "but  I  don't  like  to  give  you  the 
trouble  of  going;  papa  could  take  me." 

"  It  is  best  that  I  should  go,  darling,  and  call  upon  Lady  Eger- 
ton.  Edith,"  as  that  young  person  hurried  into  the  room,  "what 
do  you  say,  to  our  all  spending  a  week  or  two  in  town  ?" 


BEHIND   THE  ARRAS. 

"  Oh  it  is  not  for  me  to  choose,  dear  aunt;  my  pleasure  is  a  second- 
ary consideration  now  that  we  have  Florence  to  please,"  she  replied, 
and  even  before  she  spoke,  her  manner  of  seating  herself  at  the 
table,  proved  to  discerning  eyes  that  she  had  given  great  offense  this 
morning  to  her  right  foot,  by  allowing  the  left  one  precedence  in 
rising.  "Besides,"  she  added  with  an  air  of  martyrdom,  "  it  is  my 
nature  to  make  sacrifices,  even  though  they  are  not  appreciated." 

"  It  is  not  absolutely  necessary  for  you  to  go  with  us,  Edith,"  re- 
marked her  uncle;  "  you  can  remain  here  alone  if  you  like." 

"I  was  not  aware  that  I  had  the  credit  of  an  unsociable  disposi- 
tion, and  a  fondness  for  a  deserted  house.  But  of  course  it  shall 
be  as  you  wish;  oh,  certainly,  I'll  remain  here,  and  associate  with 
the  rats;"  and  she  tossed  her  head,  as  her  voice  was  checked  by  a 
lump  in  her  throat. 

"  You  misunderstand,  my  dear/'  said  her  aunt.  "  "VVe  wish  you 
to  do  only  what  will  be  most  agreeable  to  yourself.  Come  to  town 
with  us  by  all  means." 

"  I'm  sure  I'd  do  anything  to  please  your  ladyship.  If  I  must  go, 
I  will  strive  to  do  it  with  a  good  grace,"  and  a  second  lump  dis- 
placed the  first  one  in  her  throat. 

An  expression  of  despair  passed  over  Lady  Amtenhurst's  face. 
The  Earl  put  down  his  knife  and  fork,  and  very  quietly  said  to 
his  niece:  "  Edith,  will  you  be  kind  enough  to  tell  me  in  plain  terms 
what  it  is  you  wish  to  do,  and  we  will  arrange  our  plans  accord- 
ingly. "Will  that  convince  you  of  the  strength  of  our  regard  ?  " 

"  Thank  you,  uncle,  but  I  have  no  ambition  to  be  made  the  bear 
in  the  cellar.  I  know  my  place,  and  my  duty  now  is  to  obey;  not 
to  propose  what  may  prove  disagreeable  to  others,"  and  a  third  lump 
struggled  fiercely  for  place,  as  she  cast  a  glance  of  injured  innocence 
at  her  cousin. 

Florence  had  taken  up  iheAvington  News  as  the  discussion  began, 
and  now  as  her  father's  color  rose,  hers  rose  too,  but  not  from  the 
same  cause. 

"  Oh,  papa! "  she  exclaimed,  almost  piteously :  "  they  have  me  in 
the  paper!"  It  was  a  fortunate  turn  to  the  conversation,  for  the 
question  was  immediately  asked  what  she  meant,  and  with  many 
blushes  she  read  aloud  that  piece,  copied  into  the  Morning  Post  the 
next  day,  which  so  startled  Sir  Griffith,  although  unintelligble  to  his 
wife  and  to  me. 

What  a  laugh  they  had!  Not  so  much  at  the  article  as  at  Flor- 
ence's consternation  on  finding  herself  famous.  Even  Edith  joined 
in,  though  her  laugh  had  not  the  ring  of  true  merriment. 

"  They  took  enough  time  to  discover  your  perfections,"  she  said 


192  BEHIND   THE  ARRAS. 

rather  spitefully,  "  or  else  they  failed  until  now  in  forming  a  eulogy 
•worthy  of  the  subject.  Were  it  about  me,  I  know  I  would  never 
have  courage  to  show  my  face  again  in  public.  Poor  child,  what 
an  object  of  ridicule  you  will  be!  " 

"Do  you  really  think  so,  Edith?1'  asked  Florence,  in  dismay. 

"  Never  mind,  Florence,"  said  her  father,  rising,  "  you  will  have 
the  benefit  of  your  cousin's  experience  in  the  art  of  enduring  ridi- 
cule; and  you  will  find  her  a  very  competent  teacher  for  the  knack 
of  sharpening  your  weapons  of  defense." 

"  Good,  gracious  me — "  began  Miss  Courtenay,  in  indignation. 

"Your  pardon,  Edith,"  interrupted  the  Earl;  "but  really  I  do 
not  like  to  hear  terms  misapplied.  You  seem  far  from  good  this 
morning,  and  anything  but  gracious,"  and  he  calmly  lighted  a 
cigar. 

As  Edith  appeared  to  be  upon  the  verge  of  taking  refuge  in  tears, 
Florence,  goodnaturedly,  tried  to  change  the  topic  by  asking: 

"  "Well,  papa,  dear,  which  of  us  then  go  up  to  town  ?" 

e '  Your  mother,  you,  and  I.  Edith  must  decide  for  herself.  We 
will  start  to-morrow  morning." 

He  left  the  room  puffing  at  his  cigar,  apparently  unruffled,  al- 
though he  often  confessed  that  these  brushes  with  his  niece  were 
most  trying  to  the  temper.  The  only  visible  effect  that  they  ever 
had  upon  him  was  to  loose  his  sarcastic  powers  upon  the  world  for 
an  hour  or  two  afterwards.  Lady  Amtenhurst  followed  him,  saying: 

"  Get  your  hats,  girls,  and  come." 

In  a  few  moments  the  three  passed  out  on  to  the  terrace,  Edith 
stalking  ahead  majestically.  A  pretty  little  grey-hound  came  run- 
ning to  meet  and  fawn  upon  them.  Edith  gave  it  an  angry  poke 
with  her  parasol. 

"Nasty  little  brute!"  she  cried. 

Florence,  out  of  compassion  for  the  whining  dog,  began  to  play 
with  it.  They  chased  each  other  up  and  down  the  broad  terrace, 
the  animal  spirits  of  both  raised  to  the  highest  pitch.  The  graceful 
little  creature  capered  and  barked.  The  hardly  less  graceful  girl 
clapped  her  hands,  and  laughing,  ran  nimbly  over  the  gravel. 
They  reached  the  edge  of  the  terrace,  where  stone  steps  led  to  the 
lawn  beneath.  She  turned  to  go  down  them,  tempted  by  the  green 
grass  below;  the  dog  leaped  against  her,  she  stumbled,  fell  forward, 
and  caught  at  a  stone  urn;  but  missing  her  grasp,  came  down  upon 
her  bent  ankle.  Lady  Amtenhurst  ran  to  her  daughter's  assistance, 
for  she  sat  unable  to  rise,  her  lips  quivering  with  pain. 

"  I  cannot  stand,  mamma.  Please  call  papa."  Her  father  came 
and  carried  her  into  the  house,  and  it  was  many  days  before  she 


BEHIND  THE  AREAS.  193 

could  rise  without  his  aid  from  the  couch  where  he  placed  her.  He 
would  have  delayed  his  trip  to  town,  and  the  proposed  explanation 
with  the  Egertons,  on  account  of  her  accident,  but  she  begged  him 
to  go  alone. 

"Go  to-morrow  as  you  intended,  please  papa,"  she  said,  "but 
come  back  to  me  soon.  You  won't  stay  more  than  a  day,  will  you? 

"  No,  darling;  I  will  return  as  soon  as  possible;  it  may  be,  to- 
morrow evening. " 

He  wrote  at  once  to  Sir  Griffith  saying  that  he  would  like  to  see 
him  on  a  matter  of  interest  and  importance ;  and  that,  as  he 
would  be  but  a  few  hours  in  town,  and  as  the  chances  of  finding 
him  at  home  were  slight,  he  took  the  liberty  of  asking  him  to  meet 
him  at  his  solicitor  Parkin's  office,  in  Lincoln's  Inn  Field,  at  any 
hour  from  eleven  till  two  on  the  following  day.  The  next  morning 
he  went  up  alone  to  London,  and  Sir  Griffith  receiving  his  letter  at 
the  breakfast- table,  they  met  in  Parkin's  office  at  eleven  o'clock. 

With  no  doubt  as  to  what  was  to  be  the  subject  of  the  conference, 
Sir  Griffith  went  to  the  rendezvous.  Long  was  the  talk  of  the  two 
men  about  the  girl  who  was  almost  equally  a  daughter  to  both  of  them; 
and  they  parted  mutually  pleased  with  each  other,  and  regretting 
that  the  Earl's  promise  to  Florence  forbade  his  remaining  to  dine 
with  the  Baronet  in  Park  Lane. 

"  I  wish  you  could  stay  and  tell  the  women-folk,"  said  Sir  Griffith, 
"I  can't.  They  would  deluge  me  with  unanswerable  questions,  so 
that  I  should  lose  all  patience  before  my  story  was  half  finished.  I 
know  what  I'll  do!"  slapping  his  knee.  "  I'll  go  directly  to  Strutt, 
and  tell  him,  which  will  be  easy  enough,  and  he  can  retail  it  all  at 
home.  It  was  only  yesterday  I  gave  him  permission  to  tell  that 
double-distilled  essence  of  curiosity,  Miss  Lifford,  to  whom  Lucy 
really  belonged,  and  he  need  but  add  a  word  or  two  more.  The 
furies  protect  me  when  it  is  discovered  that  I  have  kept  a  secret 
from  my  wife  and  cousin  all  this  time !  I  must  take  a  run  into  the 
country  till  their  anger  cools." 

"  Run  in  my  direction,  Egerton.  The  ladies  will  be  only  too  de- 
lighted to  see  you." 

"  Without  my  wife  and  Julia?  That  would  be  fanning  a  blaze 
with  a  vengeance,  and  destroying  all  chance  of  my  ever  again  being 
taken  into  favor.  Wait  a  few  days,  and  we  will  come  down  en 
famille.  Eh,  my  lord?" 

"By  all  means,  my  dear  fellow.      You  could  not  do  anything 
that  would  give  us  all  more  pleasure.     I  only  beg  of  you  not  to 
defer  your  visit  too  long." 
13 


BEHIND  THE  ARRAS. 

"Very  well;    we'll  come,"   Sir    Griffith   said.      "Tell    Lucy- 
Florence,  I  mean — that  I  have  forgiven  the  offense,  and  am  prepared 


to  hug  the  offender." 


CHAPTER  XIX. 

They  stood  aloof,  the  scars  remaining — 
Like  cliffs  which  had  been  rent  asunder; 
A  dreary  sea  now  flows  between. 

— "  Christobel." 

'HE  sun  had  gone  down  behind  the  tree -tops  where  they 
stretched  far  away  to  the  west,  and  was  sinking  to  rest  in 
the  distant  sea;  but  his  beams  which  had  but  a  moment  be- 
fore lighted  up  the  tall,  red  brick  chimneys,  and  glistened 
on  the  upper  window  panes  of  Avington  Court,  glancing  and  gleam- 
ing upon  turret  and  gable,  and  throwing  long,  straggling  shadows 
athwart  the  walls,  still  lingered  in  a  flame  of  blazing  colors  in  the 
sky  above — lingered,  and  then  faded  slowly  and  reluctantly  into  the 
sombre  gray  of  neutral-tinted  twilight.  The  cawing  rooks  were 
whirling  through  their  last  aeriel  quadrille  before  taking  up  their 
quarters  for  the  night  among  the  beech-tops;  the  flowers  were  fold- 
ing their  delicate  leaves  about  them,  unconscious  of  the  coming 
dewdrops — 

*'  Those  tears  of  the  sky  for  the  loss  of  the  sun," 

which  were  soon  to  fall  gently  and  tenderly  upon  the  darkening 
earth.  The  occasional  hoarse  note  of  a  bull-frog  sounded  from  the 
grass,  night  birds  began  to  wake  and  plume  their  feathers,  the  air 
grew  still  and  soft,  saddened  by  the  death  of  day,  and  the  stars  one 
by  one  peeped  forth  dimly  in  the  deepening  blue  above. 

At  an  open  window  of  her  own  room,  her  eyes  not  wandering 
over  the  landscape,  but  with  a  steady  gaze  fixed  upon  one  particular 
opening  in  the  trees  where  the  view  stretched  far,  far  away,  sat 
Florence.  There  was  a  strange  longing  and  unrest  within,  for  all 
her  outward  quiet.  Her  ankle  was  painful,  and  she  was  feverish 
and  unreasoningly  desirous  of  something — anything — she  knew  not 
what;  but  with  a  vague,  though  abiding  sense  of  certainty  that  the 
evening  would  bring  it  to  her.  All  the  afternoon  she  had  sat  and 
watched  that  opening  in  the  trees,  and  now,  as  the  hour  approached 
when  the  London  train  was  due  at  Avington  station,  she  looked  out 
into  the  gathering  gloom,  and  strained  her  eyes  more  and  more  to 
catch  the  first  glimpse  of  smoke  that  would  tell  of  the  coming  of 
the  toiling  iron  monster. 


BEHIND  THE  AERAS.  195 

"  The  train  must  be  late,  mamma/'  she  said,  without  turning  her 
head.  "  What  time  is  it  now?  " 

Lady  Amtenhurst,  who  sat  reading  by  her  side,  glanced  for  the 
half  dozenth  time,  at  least,  in  fifteen  minutes  at  the  ormolu  clock 
on  the  chimney-piece. 

"  It  still  wants  five  minutes,  my  dear,  of  the  time.  But  I  really 
doubt,  Florence,  if  your  father  will  return  to-night." 

"Yes,  he  will,  mamma.  I  know  he  will,"  Florence  answered  with 
the  simple  assurance  of  a  child.  "  Hark!" 

Her  face  brightened  as  she  bent  forward,  an4  a  faint  distant 
whistle  echoed  through  the  still  air :  then  a  quickly-passing  dark 
line  crossed  the  opening,  with  a  wreath  of  white  smoke  floating  up- 
ward, and  the  long-looked-for  train  had  reached  the  little  station 
down  there  behind  the  trees.  In  silence  Florence  and  her  mother 
waited  while  the  ticking  of  the  clock  on  the  chimney  piece  told  of 
the  tediously  passing  minutes.  Five — ten — fifteen  minutes:  what 
an  age!  and  then  upon  the  gravel  the  faint  sound  of  coming  wheels, 
came  to  them  through  the  window,  and  Florence  held  her  handker- 
chief ready  for  waving.  Then,  in  a  turn  of  the  drive  out  from  be- 
hind a  row  of  beeches,  appeared  the  carriage,  and  Florence's  hand- 
kerchief fluttered  from  the  casement.  In  a  moment  an  answering 
flutter  came  from  the  carriage  window;  another  moment  and  a  sec- 
ond flag  of  truce  was  seen  waving  beside  the  first. 

"Papa  has  brought  some  one  with  him!"  she  cried,  and  her  face 
flushed  and  her  heart  beat  as  she  thought,  "who  is  it?"  Then  as 
the  carriage  whirled  up  the  drive,  and  passed  round  the  house 
and  out  of  sight,  she  sank  quietly  back.  Lady  Amtenhurst  had  gone 
to  meet  the  new  comers. 

Presently  there  were  footsteps  in  the  corridor  without  and  Lord 
Amtenhurst  came  hurrying  into  the  room. 

"And  how  is  my  Florence,  now?"  he  asked,  bending  over  her 
and  kissing  her  tenderly. 

"Immensely  anxious  to  hear  the  news,  papa,  dear.  "Who  did  you 
see  ?  Were  they  glad  or  sorry  ?  What  did  they  say  ?  Were  they 
not  awfully  angry  with  me?  and  oh,  I  forgot! — who  was  that  you 
brought  with  you — Sir  Grimth  ?  " 

"  Question  upon  question,  after  the  manner  of  your  sex.  And 
pray,  how  do  you  happen  to  know  that  I  brought  any  one  down 
with  me?" 

"  I  saw  two  handkerchiefs." 

"  Ergo — et  cetera,  et  cetera.  And  your  logical  brain  refused  to  ac- 
knowledge the  possibility  that  one  man  might  carry  two  handker- 
chiefs?" 


196  BEHIND   THE  ARRAS. 

"He  wouldn't  wave  them  both  together,  if  he  did,  I'm  sure — 
would  he  ?  " 

"  Hardly,  my  dear;  you're  right,"  her  father  answered,  laugh- 
ingly; "that  is,  your  deductions  are.  "Well,  little  one,  I  shan't 
keep  you  in  suspense  any  longer.  I  saw  only  Sir  Griffith  in  town. 
He  asked  me  to  dine  with  him;  but  I  thought  of  you  waiting  here 
for  my  return,  and  I  declined.  My  news,  however,  was  no  news  to 
him,  for  he  had  seen  the  whole  thing  in  the  Morning  Post,  and 
though  he  tried  to  make  his  congratulations  warm,  I  could  see  that, 
poor  old  fellow,  he  felt  your  loss  very  keenly." 

"And  how  are  Miss  Lifford  and  Lady  Egerton?" 

"Both  quite  well,  I  imagine.  I  did  not  see  them;  but  Sir  Grif- 
fith promised  me  to  bring  them  both  down  here  very  soon,  for  a  long 
visit;  so  you  must  make  haste  and  mend  this  troublesome  ankle. 
But  there  was  another  old  friend  of  yours  whom  I  met.  He  came 
up  to  me  in  the  street  with  a  face  all  aglow  with  wonder  and  ex- 
citement, and  poured  forth  a  torrent  of  questions  equal  to  yours. 
He,  too,  had  been  reading  the  Morning  Post  at  his  Club,  and  as  a 
matter  of  course,  had  chanced  upon  that  oft-recurring  article  on  my 
and  your  mother's  happiness,  and  your  virtues." 

"He,  papa;  who?"  Florence  asked  in  a  low  voice.     "Who?" 

"Why  Ingolsby,  of  course,  who  else?" 

"  Alva  Ingolsby  ?"  The  tone  of  her  voice  as  the  name  left  Flor- 
ence's lips,  was,  to  the  ear  of  her  father,  one  of  utter  indifference; 
yet  a  sudden  pallor,  unseen  by  him  in  the  gathering  darkness,  over- 
spread her  face,  and  though  its  expression  was  one  of  surprise 
and  contempt,  there  was  yet  a  strangely  mingled  look  of  pleasure  in 
her  eyes. 

"  Alva  Ingolsby  ?"  she  repeated,  dreamily. 

"  Yes;  Alva  Ingolsby.  And  a  charming  young  fellow  he  is,  too. 
I  positively  never  saw  a  man  so  anxious  as  he  was  to  hear  of  one 
not  related  to  him,  nor  about  to  be.  Well,  my  dear,  I  must  run  off 
now  and  dress  for  dinner.  One  musn't  be  late  in  one's  own  house, 
you  know. 

"  Oh,  but  you  haven't  told  me  yet  who  it  is  you  brought  with 
you!" 

"  So  I  haven't.  Well,  child,  it  is — But  why  not  come  down  and 
see  for  yourself  ?" 

"I'm  almost  afraid  to  venture.  The  poor  ankle  is  very  weak  yet, 
and  I  do  so  hate  to  go  hobbling  about  with  a  stick.  Oh,  I'll  tell 
you  what,  papa,"  and  a  happy  thought  seemed  to  strike  her;  "if 
you  could  only  manage  to  carry  me  down  stairs,  I  think  I  might 
venture.  Do  you  really  think  you  are  strong  enough,  papa?  I'm 


BEHIND   THE  ARRAS.  197 

an  awfully  heavy  girl,  small  as  I  look,  I  can  tell  you;  do  you  really 
think  you  could  manage  it?"  and  she  looked  up  hopefully. 

"Without  the  slightest  difficulty,  I'm  sure,  my  child.  Very 
well,  then,"  looking  at  his  watch;  "I'll  give  Putnam  just  twenty 
minutes  to  get  you  ready,  and  then  I'll  come  back  for  you.  There — 
I  have  rung  for  her.  And  you  might  tell  her  to  put  on  some  of  your 
most  becoming  ribbons,  child.  Twenty  minutes,  remember,  not  a 
second  longer,"  and  the  Earl  was  gone. 

Florence  had  enough  of  the  feminine  desire  to  please,  not  to  re- 
quire any  hint  as  to  the  toilette  she  should  select;  and,  thanks  to 
the  agile  fingers  of  Putnam,  the  last  pin  was  inserted,  and  the  last 
lace  tied,  when  Lord  Amtenhurst  came  back. 

It  was,  indeed,  a  most  enchanting  vision  of  blue  and  white  love- 
liness that  his  strong  arms  bore  in  them  down  the  broad  staircase, 
and  into  the  drawing-room  below. 

How  her  heart  beat  as  they  approached  the  door!  and  how  it 
sank  when  she  saw  only  her  mother  in  the  room.  But  she  was 
scarcely  settled  on  a  sofa,  and  the  cushions  arranged  by  loving 
hands,  in  the  most  luxurious  manner  possible,  when  some  one  else 
entered  the  room.  Yes,  she  was  right!  It  was  as  she  had  thought, 
nay,  hoped,  from  the  first  moment  that  she  had  seen  the  second 
handkerchief  waving  on  the  evening  air,  but  had  not  dared  ex- 
press to  her  father— it  was  Alva  Ingolsby;  and  looking  just  as  she 
had  seen  him  so  many,  many  times  in  the  old  days,  save  that  there 
was  an  unusual  flush  upon  his  face. 

As  he  approached,  her  eyelids  fell,  and  she  put  forth  her  hand 
without  looking  up.  He  took  it,  murmuring  some  almost  indistinct 
words  about  "pleasure,"  and  "  congratulations,"  and  "being 
deeply  grieved  at  her  accident/'  and  a  more  constrained  greeting  on 
both  sides  it  would  be  difficult  to  imagine.  Both  greatly  embar- 
rassed and  striving  to  command  their  feelings,  each  felt  the  cold- 
ness of  the  other's  manner,  and  neither  doubted  but  that  they  alone 
were  assuming  indifference;  and  each,  nettled  by  the  other's  cold- 
ness, lost  in  consequence  something  of  their  embarrassment,  if  not 
of  their  frigidity. 

Florence's  womanly  pride  came  to  the  rescue.  In  her  eyes  In- 
golsby's  manner  expressed  a  fear  that  she  felt  more  for  him  than  he 
could  return;  for  ever-present  in  her  mind  was  the  vision  of  that 
scene  in  Home  under  the  shop-awning,  its  shadow  falling  upon  all 
things.  She  would  not  play  the  part  of  the  forsaken  damsel,  but 
would  prove  to  him  beyond  the  peradventure  of  a  doubt,  that  his 
egotistical  fears  were  groundless,  his  compassionate  solicitude  with- 
out cause.  No  one  should  ever  guess  the  truth  until  she  had  con- 


198  BEHIND   THE  ARRAS. 

quered  this  wild  fancy;  and,  looking  up,  she  caught  her  mother's 
eye,  and  felt  with  keen  pleasure  that  she  and  no  other  could  under- 
stand her  feelings,  and  sympathize  with  them,  and  aid  her  in  her  task. 

"Papa  did  not  tell  me  you  were  here,  Mr.  Ingolsby.  This  is  an 
unexpected  pleasure,"  she  said,  with  the  cold  civility  of  a  hostess  to 
a  stranger-guest. 

"  Did  I  not  see  you,  or  rather  your  signal,  at  the  window  as  we 
drove  up  ?  It  was  you,  was  it  not  ?" 

"Yes,  I  suppose  it  must  have  been,  if  you  refer  to  seeing  a  hand- 
kerchief waved.  No  one  else  would  be  so  silly — but  then,  you  see, 
I  have  a  way  of  doing  foolish  things."  She  stopped  short,  fearing 
he  might  take  some  meaning  from  the  remark  she  had  no  intention 
of  conveying  when  the  words  were  uttered,  and  added  quickly:  "  I 
did  not  see  you,  though.  Were  you  with  papa  ?  Oh,  was  it  Mr. 
Ingolsby  you  brought  with  you,  papa  ?  "  turning  to  her  father,  with 
just  a  shade  of  disappointment  in  her  voice — a  tone  Ingolsby  did 
not  fail  to  detect.  "  You  wouldn't  tell  me  who  it  was,  you  remem- 
ber— you  naughty  papa." 

"I  thought  the  pleasure  of  meeting  as  old  a  friend  as  Mr.  Ingolsby 
would  be  so  greatly  enhanced  by  the  surprise  of  seeing  him,  that  I 
hadn't  the  heart  to  forewarn  you,  my  dear,"  replied  the  Earl,  play- 
fully. 

There  was  an  awkward  pause  as  Florence  hid  a  very  red  and  an- 
noyed face  behind  her  fan,  and  Ingolsby  bit  his  mustache  in  silence. 

"You  are  very  old  friends,  are  you  not?"  continued  Lord  Am  ten- 
hurst,  looking  from  one  to  the  other.  ' '  Sir  Griffith  told  me  you 
were." 

"  I  have  known  your  daughter,  Lord  Amtenhurst,  since  she  was 
scarcely  more  than  a  child,"  Ingolsby  answered  quietly,  with  a 
reproachful  glance  at  Florence. 

"  Ah,  so  I  thought.  So  I  understood  from  Sir  Griffith,"  returned 
the  Earl,  whatever  momentary  doubts  he  may  have  had,  at  rest. 

"And  as  one  scarcely  more  than  a  child,  papa,  your  daughter 
has,  I  assure  you,  been  the  recipient  of  much  sage  advice  from  Mr. 
Ingolsby,"  said  Florence.  "  Do  you  remember,  Mr.  Ingolsby,  that 
day  when  our  acquaintance  was  hardly  more  than  begun,  that  you 
so  generously  told  me  of  all  my  faults  and  imperfections?"  she 
asked,  for  the  moment  wishing  to  pain  him,  but  the  next  instant 
regretting  the  words,  for  her  heart  was  full  of  gratitude. 

Ingolsby's  face  reddened  painfully  as  he  answered  with  an  em- 
barrassed little  laugh :  "  I  fear  that  you  have  on  more  than  one  oc- 
casion thought  my  presumption  great,  Lady  Florence;  but,  I  assure 
you,  repentance  has  always  followed  after — always;"  and  as  he  re- 
peated the  word  with  peculiar  emphasis,  their  eyes  met  for  a  moment. 


BEHIND   THE  ARRAS.  199 

Florence  thought  she  understood  him,  and  with  rising  anger 
replied  quickly,  laughing  as  she  spoke:  "  I'm  afraid  it  would  be  im- 
possible for  me  to  ease  your  conscience,  Mr.  Ingolsby,  without 
wounding  your  pride;  therefore  I  will  leave  you  to  repent  at  leisure." 

"How  late  Edith  is,"  interposed  Lady  Amtenhurst,  anxious  to 
stop  this  by-play  which  was  very  clear  to  her.  ' '  I  think  you  know 
my  niece,  Mr.  Ingolsby  ?  " 

"  I  had  the  pleasure  of  meeting  her  at  the  Ogilvies'  place  in  Dev- 
onshire, last  year;  but  I  scarcely  think  she  can  remember  me/' 
said  Ingolsby. 

"  On  the  contrary,  she  speaks  of  you  quite  often.  The  Ogilvies' 
is  one  of  the  very  few  places  I  allow  her  to  visit  without  me." 

"  Speaking  of  the  Ogilvies,  reminds  me  that  I  met  Sir  Philip  at 
Parkins'  to-day,"  said  the  Earl,  "  and  he  told  me  they  thought  of 
spending  the  summer  in  Switzerland.  By-the-bye,  Ingolsby,  what 
an  immense  favorite  you  are  with  my  crusty  old  lawyer  Parkins. 
He  was  saying  all  kinds  of  nice  things  about  you." 

"  He  is  very  kind,  I'm  sure,"  said  IngoJsby.  "I  brought  him  a 
letter  of  introduction  from  a  brother  lawyer  of  his  in  America  when 
I  came  over,  and  he  has  been  of  great  service  to  me  in  some  legal 
matters  I  had  to  look  into,  and  we  have  seen  a  great  deal  of  each 
other.  He  has  been,  I  must  say,  far  from  crusty  with  me,  your 
lordship." 

"  You  are  not  a  client  of  his,"  said  the  Earl,  drily. 

"  You  are  an  American,  Mr.  Ingolsby,  are  you  not?"  asked  Lady 
Amtenhurst. 

"  I  have  lived  in  America  many  years,  your  ladyship,  but  I  am 
an  Englishman  by  birth.  I  am  afraid,  though,  that  I  must  confess 
to  an  equally  divided  allegiance,"  Ingolsby  replied,  laughing. 

"  Are  not  the  Americans  a  very  odd  sort  of  people — half  civilized, 
with  queer  manners  and  customs  ?"  asked  Florence,  with  the  most 
provoking  innocence. 

"According  to  Dickens,  I  am  sorry  to  say,  yes;  in  reality,  no," 
answered  Ingolsby,  warmly.  "  He  has  drawn  individuals  who, 
though  their  prototypes  might  in  rare  instances  have  been  met  with 
by  him  in  his  travels,  are  not  by  any  means  representative  Amer- 
icans. That  there  are  a  multitude  of  quaint  characters  to  be  found 
across  the  ocean,  peculiarly  American — I  can  think  of  no  better  way 
to  express  it — it  would  be  absurd  for  me  to  deny;  no  people  on  earth, 
perhaps,  afford  a  more  extensive  field  to  the  honest  humorist;  but  I 
do  contend  that  not  from  the  pages  of  Dickens  should  the  world 
gather  its  ideas  of  them.  As  a  people,  they  combine  the  traits  of 
every  nationality,  and,  with  the  strong  good  sense  of  an  Englishman 


200  BEHIND  THE  ARRAS. 

possess  an  off-hand  generosity  that  is  not  ours.  They  are  luxurious 
in  their  homes,  though  everything  has  a  newness  about  it  that 
would  be  distasteful  to  you,  Lady  Florence;  their  refinement  is  equal 
to  ours;  in  many  respects,  their  education  far  superior;  their  business 
talent  is  immense,  and  fortunes  are  sometimes  made  and  lost  twice 
and  thrice  in  a  lifetime.  They  are  truly  a  wonderful  people,  even 
for  the  age  in  which  we  live." 

"A  Daniel  come  to  judgment!"  cried  Florence.  "  "Were  I  quali- 
fied to  judge  I  should  feel  tempted  to  confess  your  '  exposition  hath 
been  most  sound.'  As  it  is,  I  can  only  say,  'American  Notes '  I 
have  always  thought  one  of  Dickens's  most  amusing  books.  The 
people  he  writes  about  all  seem  natural  enough  to  me." 

"Seem — yes;  and  the  book  is  amusing,  I'll  grant  you.  That's 
just  where  it  is.  I  have  laughed  again  and  again  over  the  book  my- 
self, but  precisely  as  I  have  laughed  at  the  lisping  absurdities  of 
*  Lord  Dundreary,'  who  seems  to  most  untraveled  Americans  I've 
met,  a  very  fair  to-the-life  picture  of  an  Englishman — his  one  fault 
in  their  eyes,  perhaps,  being  that  he  doesn't  drop  his  h's — yet  I 
question  if  there  is  a  man  on  earth,  not  even  excepting  Sothern 
himself,  who  ever  came  across  such  a  creature  in  England." 

"  I  spent  a  few  weeks  in  New  York  several  years  ago,"  observed 
Lord  Amtenhurst,  "  and  as  a  bountiful  recipient  of  American  hos- 
pitality, I  can  bear  witness  to  that  one  phase,  at  least,  of  what  you 
so  aptly  term  their  off-hand  generosity,  Ingolsby.  I  went  there  well 
accredited,  of  course;  but  I  found  that  the  most  potent  credential  I 
bore,  and  one  that  I  believe  insured  me  the  most  genuine  kindness 
at  their  hands,  was  the  simple  fact  that  I  was  a  stranger;  a  recom- 
mendation which  I  am  ashamed  to  say  would  do  very  little  for  a  man 
in  England  had  he  no  other  to  offer.  Whatever  angels  are  enter- 
tained unawares  in  the  world,  receive  not,  I  am  afraid,  their  enter- 
tainment from  Englishmen." 

"How  severe  you  are  on  your  countrymen,  papa,"  said  Florence, 
with  a  surprised  look  at  her  conservative  father,  for  expressing  such 
liberal  views.  "I  thought  English  hospitality  was  proverbial  the 
world  over." 

"Proverbial,  my  child?  Yes,  so  it  is;  but  proverbial  for  the 
rules  and  regulations  which  tie  it  up  and  hamper  it.  My  stay  in 
America  showed  me  that.  Do  you  know,  Ingolsby,  that  I  never 
hear  the  phrase,  '  English  hospitality,'  that  I  do  not  think  of  the 
man  who  refused  to  save  the  young  woman  from  drowning  because 
he  had  not  been  introduced  to  her!" 

Ere  the  laugh  that  followed  the  Earl's  remarks  had  subsided, 
Miss  Courtenay,  arrayed  en  grande  tenue,  with  a  great  rustling  of 


BEHIND  THE  ARRAS.  201 

silk  and  ribbons,  and  redolent  of  much  perfume  of  patchouly,  came 
sweeping  into  the  room.  She  welcomed  Ingolsby  with  empressement, 
and  then  stooped  to  imprint  a  kiss  on  Florence's  brow. 

"  Are  you  coming  in  to  dinner  with  us,  Florence,  dear?  Indeed, 
I  would  not  advise  you  to  do  so  until  your  poor,  dear  ankle  is  quite 
strong  again.  Would  you,  Mr.  Ingolsby?  Don't  you  wonder  how 
she  could  have  been  so  awkward  as  to  sprain  it  in  the  way  she  did  ? 
Now,  if  it  had  been  me,  who  could  feel  astonished?"  and  she 
paused,  in  vain,  for  a  compliment  on  her  grace,  as  dinner  was  an- 
nounced. 

"  Will  you  come  in  with  us,  Florence,  dear,  or  have  your  dinner 
brought  to  you  here  ?  "  asked  Lady  Amtenhurst. 

Florence  hesitated. 

"  Pray  don't  think  me  selfish,  Lady  Florence,  but  sooner  than 
that  we  should  be  deprived  of  your  society,  might  not  the  '  poor, 
dear  ankle'  be  induced,  with  a  trifle  of  assistance,  to  bear  you  that 
far  ?  "  suggested  Ingolsby. 

Florence  decided  then.  "  Thanks.  I  will  remain  here,  mamma, 
please." 

Ingolsby  in  silence  offered  his  arm  to  Lady  Amtenhurst;  Miss 
Courtenay  took  her  uncle's,  and  so  they  left  the  room,  Florence 
assuring  them  her  solitude  was  by  no  means  a  punishment. 

It  is  doubtful  which  enjoyed  their  dinner  less:  Ingolsby  under 
fire  of  Edith  Courtenay's  charming  little  speeches,  and  airs,  and 
graces;  or  Florence  between  the  cross-fires  in  her  own  mind,  of 
pleasure  at  Ingolsby's  proving  to  be  less  despicable  than  she  had 
feared,  and  pain  at  the  thought  of  having  to  give  him  up  to  another. 
And  then  the  evening  was  no  improvement  on  the  quarter-hour  be- 
fore dinner,  Florence  continuing  her  covert  attacks,  and  Ingolsby 
parrying  them  as  gracefully  as  his  solely-tried  patience  and  his  be- 
wilderment at  her  strangely-altered  manner  would  permit.  At  last 
a  random  shaft  fairly  drove  him  from  her  side.  Speaking  about 
some  public  man,  one  of  the  heroes  of  the  hour,  Lord  Amtenhurst 
remarked.  "  He  is  one  of  those  men  who  have  a  secret  ill  their  lives, 
and  yet  the  people  place  great  confidence  in  him." 

"And  after  the  manner  of  such  persons,  he  will  turn  out  utterly 
.unworthy  of  it,"  she  said,  looking  at  Ingolsby  as  she  spoke,  and 
wondering  if  he  had,  as  she  had  often  fancied,  a  secret  in  his  life. 

A  glance  of  reproachful  surprise  flashed  from  Ingolsby's  eyes  as 
he  turned  toward  Miss  Courtenay. 

"  Will  you  not  give  us  some  music,  Miss  Courtenay?"  he  asked. 
"A  song,  please." 

"  With  the  greatest  pleasure.     I  make  it  a  rule  not  to  be  one  of 


202  BEHIND   THE  AREAS. 

those  dreadfully  tiresome  people  who  require  so  much  urging  that 
one  grows  weary  of  asking,"  and  Miss  Courtenay  seated  herself  at 
the  piano.  "  What  style  do  you  like;  gay  or  sad?" 

"  Sing  me  '  Looking  Back,'  "  Ingolsby  replied,  as  he  searched  for 
it  in  a  book  of  ballads  that  lay  on  top  of  the  piano.  "  Here  it  is." 

"  Never  mind  turning  over  the  leaves  for  me.  It  makes  me  nerv- 
ous to  have  any  one  standing  beside  me  when  I  sing.  Besides,  I 
don't  need  the  music — really.  I  always  make  it  a  rule  to  know  all 
the  accompaniments  of  my  songs  without.  If  there's  one  thing  I 
hate  it's  to  hear  a  person  refuse  to  play  '  because  they  haven't  their 
notes.'  " 

So  Ingolsby  went  over  and  leaned  his  arm  upon  the  chimney-piece 
just  across  the  corner  of  the  room  from  where  Florence's  sofa  stood, 
and  with  his  back  to  her,  looked  down  upon  the  rug  at  his  feet. 

Edith  Courtenay's  voice  was  a  good  one — a  mezzo-soprano,  sweet, 
and  well  trained;  and  as  she  sang  the  words  of  that  pathetic  song 
of  Arthur  Sullivan's,  Florence  studied  the  profile  reflected  in  the 
mirror  above  the  chimney-piece.  As  she  watched  the  well-known, 
handsome  features,  the  face  saddened  more  than  she  had  ever  seen 
it,  her  own  softened  unconsciously;  and  her  heart  spoke  through  her 
eyes  when  Edith  reached  the  words : 

"Oh!  my  love,  I  loved  her  so, 
My  love  that  loved  me  years  ago. " 

As  the  words  rang  out  in  all  the  beauty  of  the  most  affecting 
strains  of  the  melody,  Ingolsby  looked  up  and  their  eyes  met 
through  the  medium  of  the  mirror.  His  lighted  instantly,  and  with 
a  smile  he  turned  toward  her;  hers  quickly  fell  and  she  caught 
nervously  at  her  fan.  Had  he  come  to  her  side  she  could  not  then 
have  feigned;  but  when  she  glanced  up  again,  he  was  leaning  over 
the  piano,  and  her  heart  beat  in  anger  at  him  and  at  her  own  weak- 
ness. The  song  ended,  she  whispered  to  her  father: 

"  I  am  very  tired,  papa;  please  take  me  up  stairs." 

And  so  the  evening  ended  with  a  cold  "good-night"  from  her 
compressed  lips. 

The  next  morning  Ingolsby  left  without  seeing  her,  and  came 
directly  to  me,  in  ignorance  of  the  fact  that  I  knew  less  than  him- 
self. And  then  came  our  quarrel,  interrupted  by  Mr.  Strutt  who 
brought  with  him  a  budget  of  news. 

And  now,  kind  reader,  can  not  you  guess  from  what  sources  I 
have  gathered  the  strands  with  which  I  have  woven  this  little  his- 
tory of  Florence's— I  should  rather  say,  perhaps,  more  fittingly— 
Lucy's  adventures,  after  her  disappearance  on  the  night  of  the  fatal 
masquerade  ? 


BEHIND   THE  AREAS.  203 

Apart  from  Florence's  own  diary,  think  of  all  those  from  whom 
information  was  derivable,  and  who  were  not  only  able  but  willing 
to  impart  it  freely.  Sir  Griffith,  Ingolsby,  Lord  and  Lady  Amten- 
hurst,  Miss  Courtenay,  and  last,  though  not  least,  Jolliffe  Tufnell; 
and  yet,  determined  to  rely  as  little  as  possible  upon  my  imagina- 
tion, the  work  of  selecting  and  dovetailing,  and  filling  in  the  bare 
outline  furnished  me  by  Mr.  Strutt's  narrative  has  been  no  easy 
task;  but,  as  Sir  Griffith  would  say, 

"What  I  have  writ,  I  have  writ, 
And  would  it  were  worthier." 


204:  BEHIND  THE  AERAS. 


BOOK    THIRD. 


CHAPTER    I. 

That  drama  of  passions  as  old  as  the  hills, 

Which  the  moral  of  all  men  in  each  man  fulfills, 
Is  only  revealed  now  and  then  to  our  eyes 
In  the  newspaper  files  and  the  courts  of  assize. 

—  "Lucile." 

) RATION  Hall  is  thrown  open  once  more,  and  a  goodly 
party  of  us  is  assembled  at  the  old  place.  The  Amtenhursts 
have  come  down  with  Florence,  who,  to  me,  scarcely  yet 
seems  as  one  of  them,  and  my  particular  and  pet  aversion 
Edith  Courtenay.  Ingolsby  is  here,  happy  and  mysterious  in  his 
manner,  and  utterly  oblivious  to  Florence's  pointed  avoidance. 
Jolliffe  Tufnell  has  deserted  his  own  ancestral  halls  for  ours,  and 
Mr.  Jedediah  Strutt,  as  pugnacious  as  ever,  has  left  his  dingy  office 
and  manifold  clients  to  the  tender  and  watchful  care  of  his  wizened 
clerk,  and  joined  our  party  for  a  day  or  two.  "With  Sir  Griffith, 
Lady  Egerton  and  myself,  our  circle  is  complete.  For  what  pur- 
pose are  we  gathered  together?  In  pursuit  of  pleasure?  Ah,  no. 
After  many  years  slumbering  sorrow  is  to  be  awakened,  old  wounds 
are  to  be  probed,  deadened  pain  is  to  be  aroused  once  more,  that 
justice  may  be  done.  Even  the  knowledge  that  poor,  lost  Guy 
Egerton's  name  is  at  last  to  be  cleared  of  the  horrible  suspicion 
resting  upon  it,  cannot  lessen  the  pain  of  remembrance  or  overcome 
my  pity  for  the  man  whom  retributive  justice  has  overtaken. 

Martin  Silliman,  he  who  was  once  supposed  to  be  our  Lucy's 
father,  was  arrested  in  California  some  months  ago  under  a  requisi- 
tion from  Her  Majesty's  government,  based  upon  evidence  ac- 
cumulated through  the  untiring  efforts  of  Jolliffe  Tufnell,  brought 
over  to  England  in  charge  of  two  special  emissaries  from  Scotland- 
yard,  and  to-day,  here  at  the  Bratton  assizes,  is  to  be  tried  for  the 
murder  of  Louis  Dunraven,  committed  eighteen  years  ago. 

Our  entire  party,  save  Edith  Courtenay,  whose  nerves  are  too 
delicate  to  undergo  the  excitement  of  a  murder  trial,  is  assembled 
in  the  Assize  Court  at  the  Bratton  town-hall.  The  place  is  crowded 


BEHIND  THE  ARRAS.  205 

by  all  classes  of  people.  The  spectator's  gallery,  where  we  sit,  is 
crammed,  the  aisles  and  passage-ways  choked,  the  barristers'  pale 
invaded.  Men  line  the  walls,  stand  on  the  backs  of  forms,  on  the 
window-sills,  and  in  the  doorways — human  heads  pop  up  in  the 
most  impossible  and  unexpected  spots,  and  the  constables,  under- 
sheriffs,  ushers,  and  crier  are  taxed  to  their  uttermost  to  preserve 
order  and  silence;  for  to-day  a  buried  mystery  of  the  past  is  to  be 
unraveled,  the  true  sequel  to  the  story  that  has  slumbered  almost 
forgotten  in  the  minds  of  the  old,  and  been  held  as  a  sort  of  dim 
tradition  by  the  young,  is  to  be  made  manifest;  and  high  and  low, 
young  and  old,  look  on  and  listen  with  eager  curiosity  as  the  trial 
proceeds. 

Mr.  Justice  Gush,  of  the  Queen's  Bench  (who  this  year  goes  the 
Midland  Circuit),  has  taken  his  seat  upon  the  bench,  the  jury  has 
been  impanneled,  and  the  indictment  read  to  the  prisoner — a  tall, 
pale  man,  with  a  face  deeply  marked  with  the  lines  of  riot  and  dis- 
sipation, and  dark  hair  and  beard  thickly  sprinkled  with  gray;  and 
who  stands  up  in  the  dock  with  the  same  look  of  stolid  indifference 
upon  his  countenance  that  it  wore  when  he  pleaded  "not  guilty" 
upon  his  arraignment. 

Sergeant  Headstrong,  with  Mr.  Dawkins,  Q.C.,  appears  for  the 
Crown;  Mr.  Toddy,  Q.  C.,  for  the  prisoner. 

Mr.  Dawkins  opens  the  case  for  the  Crown,  briefly  stating  the 
facts  which  the  prosecution  expects  to  prove  against  the  prisoner, 
the  evidence  being  all  circumstantial  in  its  character,  and  then  the 
examination  of  witnesses  is  commenced. 

After  some  preliminary  proof  as  to  the  finding  of  the  body,  the 
date,  and  the  cause  of  death,  the  latter  being  internal  hemorrhage 
from  a  gunshot  wound,  Michael  Jennings,  an  old  man,  is  called  and 
steps  into  the  witness-box  with  much  difficulty,  and  is  sworn.  He 
is  examined  by  Mr.  Dawkins : 

"  What  is  your  occupation,  my  good  man?" 

"  Gamekeeper  at  Bratton  Hall,  sir." 

"  How  long  have  you  been  in  that  situation?" 

"Twenty-one  year,  three  months,  and  (counting  on  his  fingers) 
nine  days." 

"That's  near  enough.  Did  you  know  the  deceased,  Louis  Dun- 
raven,  in  his  lifetime?" 

"  I  did,  sir;  an'  a  better  piece  o'  manhood  never  trod  the  earth." 

"  Just  answer  my  questions — no  more." 

tt  yerv  good,  sir;  but — 

"  That  will  do.     When  did  you  see  him  alive  for  the  last  time  ?  " 

"  On  the  mornin'  o'  the  murder,  sir.  An'  oh,  but  he  was  gay 
and  happy,  as  was  young  master  Guy  for  the  matter  o'  that." 


206  BEHIND  THE  ARRAS. 

"  Go  on  and  state  all  that  occurred  on  that  occasion,  but  recollect 
— nothing  irrelevant." 

"  Irreverent,  is  it,  sir?  An'  do  you  think  I  could  be  that  a — no, 
no,  you  don't  know  your  man,  sir." 

"Irrelevant  is  not  irreverent,  my  friend.  I  mean:  say  nothing 
that  does  not  pertain, — has  no  connection,  with  the  matter  in  hand. 
Go  on  now,  and  state  all  you  know  ?  " 

"  Well,  sir;  I'll  tell  all  I  know,  an'  that  isn't  much,  an'  if  I  go  a 
bit  too  far,  or  irrelephant  as  ye  call  it,  ye  can  just  stop  me  up.  I 
remember  well  the  last  day  I  saw  Mr.  Dunraven  an'  young  master 
Guy.  It  was  a  beautiful  clear  mornin'  about  eleven  o'clock  or  half 
past,  maybe.  I  was  standin'  at  the  door  o'  my  cottage,  when  I 
spied  'em  a  coming  briskly  across  the  meadows  between  me  an'  the 
park  hedge,  wi'  their  guns  under  their  arms,  a  laughin'  and  talkin' 
as  they  walked.  They  walks  straight  over  to  me,  an'  Mr.  Dunraven, 
he  says,  '  Jennings,  my  man,'  sez  he,  '  have  you  got  such  a  thing  as 
a  nipple  wrench  ?'  *  I  have  sir/  sez  I.  <  Fetch  it  out  then,'  sez  he, 
'for  the  nipple  o'  my  right  barrel  is  foul/  I  asked  'em  to  walk  in- 
side while  I  got  the  wrench,  but  they  said  as  'ow  they'd  got  a  per- 
mit to  shoot  on  the  Tufnell  place  and  was  in  a  hurry.  "Well,  sir,  I 
gets  the  wrench,  an'  Mr.  Dunraven  'andsme  his  gun,  an'  I  unscrews 
the  nipple  o'  the  right  barrel,  an'  there  sure  enough  was  a  bit  of  an 
old  cap  a  stickin'  in  it;  so  I  gets  a  bit  o' " 

"  Never  mind  about  that.     What  sort  of  a  gun  was  it  ?  " 

"  A  double-barrel  shot-gun,  sir,  by  Purdy  o'  London." 

"  Was  there  anything  else  about  the  gun  that  you  noticed?" 

"  Yes,  sir.  There  was  a  little  plate  on  the  top  o'  the  stock  wi'  Mr. 
Dunraven 's  name  on  it." 

"  Did  you  see  the  guns  that  were  produced  at  the  inquest?  " 

"  No,  sir.     I  was  laid  up  wi'  the  lumbago." 

"  Would  you  recognize  Mr.  Dunraven's  gun  now,  do  you  think?" 

"Certain  I  would,  sir." 

A  gun  is  handed  up  to  the  witness.     Dawkins  continues: 

"Examine  that  carefully,  and  tell  me  if  it  is  the  gun  Mr.  Dun- 
raven  had  on  the  occasion  you  speak  of  ?" 

The  witness  makes  a  long  and  careful  examination  of  the  gun; 
cocks  it,  draws  out  the  ramrod,  blows  into  the  muzzle,  takes  the 
barrels  out  of  the  stock,  and  puts  them  back  again,  puts  it  up  to 
his  shoulder  and  takes  a  long  aim  with  one  eye  shut,  at  a  couple  of 
old  ladies  in  the  far  end  of  the  gallery,  much  to  their  evident  terror, 
lowers  it,  lifts  the  hammers  and  blows  into  the  barrels  again  and 
says,  decisively: 
' "  No,  sir.  That  be  not  the  gun." 


BEHIND   THE  ARRAS.  207 

"  What  maker's  name  has  it?" 

"  'Greaner,  Liverpool/  sir." 

The  gun  is  handed  back,  and  another  is  shown  to  the  witness. 

Mr.  Daivkins.  "  How  about  that  one?" 

Jennings  takes  the  gun,  gives  a  quick  glance  at  the  top  of  the 
stock,  raises  the  hammer  of  the  right  barrel,  looks  a  moment  with  a 
gratified  smile  at  the  nipple,  and  exclaims: 

"  That  be  it  sir,  sure  enough!  and  there  be  the  name  on  the  plate: 
'Louis  Dunraven,  July  3,  18 — .'  " 

"  Can  you  identify  it  in  any  other  way  ?" 

"I  can,  sir,"  knowingly. 

"How?" 

"  By  this  crack  in  the  nipple.  I  was  afeered  I  had  done  it,  I  re- 
member, wi'  the  wrench,  an'  spoke  to  Mr.  Dunraven  about  it.  But 
he  said  as  'ow  it  was  there  before,  an'  no  harm  done.  I  took  par- 
ticular notice  of  it  then.  It's  a  peculiar  sort  o'  crack,  sir,  shaped 
like  a  S,  as  ye  can  see  for  yourself.  There's  be  no  mistake  about 
the  gun,  sir — maker's  name  be  the  same,  too." 

The  old  man  is  now  cross-examined  by  Mr.  Toddy  for  the  pris- 
oner. His  memory  is  tested,  and  his  patience  worried;  but  he  re- 
mains firm  in  his  statements,  nothing  new  is  discovered,  there  are 
no  contradictions,  and  he  leaves  the  box  with  a  well-satisfied  air. 

The  next  witness  is  John  Crawsly,  an  honest,  intelligent-looking 
young  man. 

"  Did  you  ever  see  the  deceased  during  his  lifetime?"  asks  Mr. 
Dawkins,  after  a  few  preliminary  questions. 

"  Not  that  I  remember,  sir.  I  was  very  young  at  the  time  the 
murder  was  committed;  but  I  saw  him  after  he  was  dead.  I  remem- 
ber that,  because  he  was  the  first  dead  man  I  ever  saw,  and  my 
father  took  me  up  to  Bratton  Hall  where  the  body  lay." 

"  How  old  were  you  at  the  time  ?" 

"Nine,  sir." 

"  Did  you  testify  at  the  inquest  ?" 

"  I  did  not,  sir." 

The  gun  identified  by  Michael  Jennings  as  the  one  in  the  posses- 
sion of  Louis  Dunraven  on  the  morning  of  the  murder,  is  here 
shown  to  the  witness. 

Mr.  Dawkins.  "  Did  you  ever  see  that  gun  before  ?" 

Witness.  "  Yes,  sir. 

"  Was  it  ever  in  your  possession  ?'•' 

"Yes,  sir." 

1  'How  came  it  there?" 

The  witness  hesitates,  turns  very  red,  then  pale,  looks  up  at  the 
ceiling,  down  at  the  floor,  and  fidgets  with  his  hat. 


BEHIND  THE  ARRAS. 

"  Come,  answer  my  questions,"  says  Mr.  Dawkins,  impatiently. 

«I — i — s-st-stole  it,"  stammers  the  young  man,  turning  red 
again,  and  looking  very  much  frightened. 

"  But  please,  sir,  I  was  a  very  little  chap  then,  and  I  didn't  know, 
sir—" 

"Never  mind  about  that,  now,"  Dawkins  interrupts  unfeelingly, 
"but  tell  us  how  and  where  you  got  it." 

"  I  found  it  in  an  old  barn  belonging  to  Mr.  Silliman,  the  pris- 
oner, sir;  leastways,  it  was  a  barn  on  the  place  he  rented — the  old 
Delamayn  place.  My  father  rented  a  farm  near  by,  from  Squire 
Delamayn,  and  I  used,  when  I  was  a  slip  of  a  boy,  to  be  up  at  the 
house,  where  Mr.  Silliman,  the  prisoner,  sir,  lived,  and  I  was  a 
great  favorite  with  the  servants.  About  two  weeks  after  the  mur- 
der I  was  up  at  the  house,  and  the  cook,  she  kept  me  to  dinner; 
but  afterwards  I  played  some  prank  or  other — gave  a  bit  o'meat 
with  mustard  on  it  to  the  cat,  or  summat  o'  that  sort  that  she  didn't 
like,  for  I  was  full  of  tricks,  like  all  young  boys,  sir — and  she 
turned  me  out,  and  told  me  to  go  home.  The  servants  had  all  been 
talking  about  the  murder,  and  I  was  that  frightened  that  I  didn't 
dare  to  go  home  alone,  as  I'd  have  to  pass  by  where  the  body  was 
found;  so  I  crawled  off  to  the  stables,  thinking  to  sleep  among  the 
horses,  but  they  were  locked,  and  I  couldn't  get  in.  There  was  an 
old  barn,  though,  just  back  o'  the  stables  a  bit,  and  I  crept  in 
through  a  little  window,  and  curled  myself  up  on  a  bundle  o'  straw, 
tremblin'  with  fear  all  the  time  of  ghosts  and  goblins.  But  I  soon 
fell  asleep,  and  I  must  have  slept  a  long  time,  for  when  I  woke  up, 
all  of  a  sudden  like,  with  a  shiver,  the  moon  was  well  up  in  the  sky, 
and  it  hadn't  risen  when  I  lay  down,  for  I  remember  groping  my 
way  in  the  dark  to  the  barn,  and  now  it  was  almost  light  as  day." 

"  Cut  your  story  short,  young  man,  and  come  to  the  point,"  says 
the  judge,  sharply,  looking  up  from  his  notes  with  a  scowl. 

"  I  will,  sir.  I  was  waked  by  the  sound  of  voices.  I  opened  my 
eyes,  and  there,  by  the  open  door,  stood  two  men,  or  leastways  a 
man  and  a  boy  about  my  own  size.  I  was  awful  scared,  and  couldn't 
catch  what  they  said  at  first,  but  after  a  bit,  when  my  heart  stopped 
a  thumpin',  I  heard  the  man  say:  '  You  understand  me,  boy?  Get 
as  far  on  the  road  as  you  can,  and  to-morrow  I'll  pick  you  up  as  I 
pass,  and  take  you  on  up  to' — I  didn't  catch  the  name  o'  the  place. 
Then  the  little  'un,  he  thanked  the  man  for  summat.  All  on  a  sud- 
den the  man,  he  swore  a  terrible  oath,  and  snatchin'  summat  away 
from  the  boy,  he  says:  '  D — n!  what  are  you  doing  with  that  gun?' 
'  I  was  going  to  throw  it  away  on  the  road,  somewhere,'  said  the 
boy.  '  Give  it  to  me,  and  I'll  sink  it  in  the  ditch,'  said  the  man; 


BEHIND  THE  ARRAS.  209 

and  then  he  came  over  to  near  where  I  was  lying,  and  as  he  passed 
the  window  the  moonlight  fell  full  on  his  face,  and  I  saw  it  was  Mr. 
Silliman,  the  prisoner,  sir,  and  he  had  a  gun  in  his  hand.  Well, 
sir,  he  walked  straight  past  me;  I  could  almost  have  touched  the 
gun-stock  with  my  foot,  and  he  stooped  down  and  stuffed  the  gun 
carefully  away  under  the  straw,  and  sayin'  to  himself,  '  It  '11  be 
safe  enough  there  for  the  present.'  And  then  they  both  went  away 
together,  and  presently  Mr.  Silliman,  the  prisoner,  sir,  he  came 
back  alone,  and  goes  and  stands  where  he'd  hid  the  gun,  and  I 
heard  him  say:  '  Would  to  heaven,  I'd  had  the  nerve  to  kill  the  boy, 
too:  dead  men  tell  no  tales.'  I  was  worse  frightened  than  ever 
then,  thinking  as  maybe  he  saw  me,  and  meant  me.  Well,  he  stood 
a  minute  or  so  mutterin'  to  himself,  and  then  he  went  out  and  shut 
the  door  and  locked  it.  I  didn't  sleep  much  more  that  night,  but 
when  the  daylight  came,  the  fear  left  me,  and  I  searched  among  the 
straw  for  the  gun  and  found  it.  It  was  a  fine  gun,  I  thought,  and  a 
cryin'  sin  and  a  shame  to  see  it  sank  in  the  ditch  and  ruined,  and  if 
no  one  was  to  have  it,  it  would  be  no  loss  to  anybody;  so  sir,  to  be 
honest  about  it,  I  just  stole  the  gun  and  ran  away  home  with  it  as 
fast  as  ever  I  could.  But  it  was  no  use  to  me,  for  I  couldn't  use  it 
myself,  and  when  I  saw  Mr.  Dunraven's  name  on  it,  I  didn't  dare  to 
show  it,  or  speak  of  it  to  a  soul,  so  I  just  hid  it  away,  and  tried  to 
forget  all  about  it.  But  that  only  made  me  think  all  the  more 
about  it,  and  that's  why  I  got  the  whole  thing  and  everything  con- 
nected with  it  fixed  so  clear  in  my  mind.  At  last  one  day  I  told  my 
father  about  the  gun,  and  he  sent  me  off  with  it  to  Sir  Griffith  Eg- 
erton,  sir,  and  I  told  him  the  whole  story,  and  he  took  the  gun,  and 
has  kept  it  ever  since,  and  if  you  please,  sir,  that's  all  I  have  to  say 
about  how  I  got  the  gun." 

The  cross-examination  by  the  prisoner's  counsel  develops  nothing 
new,  being  mainly  devoted  to  memory  tests,  and  the  usual  effort  to 
betray  into  contradictions,  neither  of  which  modes  of  attack  are  suc- 
cessful; for,  as  the  witness  has  sensibly  accounted  for  the  remark- 
able clearness  of  his  recollection  through  eighteen  years  of  the  par- 
ticular facts  he  has  testified  to,  by  the  indelible  impression  made 
on  his  mind  by  the  effort  to  forget  them,  it  can  matter  not  if  he  can- 
not remember  the  cook's  surname,  or  whether  the  Bratton  Railway 
line  was  open  at  the  time;  and  for  the  same  reason  is  he  able  to  re- 
peat his  evidence,  piece  by  piece,  without  material  variation. 

Mr.  Toddy  shakes  his  wig  well  forward  on  to  his  forehead  with  a 
twitch,  draws  his  gown  up  by  a  nervous  convulsion  of  the  shoulders, 
(a  peculiar  trick  he  has  when  vexed,  Mr.  Tufnell  tells  me,)  and  sits 
down . 

U 


210  BEHIND   THE  ARRAS. 

There  is  a  moment's  pause  as  the  young  man  Crawsly  leaves  the 
box  and  makes  his  way  back  to  his  seat.  Dawkius  consults  his 
notes  and  looks  at  Headstrong,  while  the  judge  looks  up  as  if  impa- 
tient at  the  delay,  and  the  silence  of  expectation  as  to  who  will  be 
the  next  witness,  and  what  the  testimony,  falls  upon  the  entire  as- 
semblage. 


CHAPTER   II. 

Great  contest  follows  and  much  learned  dust. 

—  "The  Garden." 

'OLLIFFE  TUFNELL!    Jolliffe  Tufnell!     Come  into  court! 
Come  into  court ! "  shouts  the  crier. 

"By  Jove,  that's  me!"  says  Tufnell,  rising  hurriedly 
from  his  seat  next  me  and  leaving  the  galleiy. 

A  minute  later  he  shoulders  his  way  through  the  throng  below, 
and  steps  eagerly  into  the  witness-box,  his  face  glowing  with  ex- 
citement. He  stumbles  as  he  enters,  and  barely  saves  himself  from 
coming  down  on  all  fours  by  a  timely  clutch  at  the  railing.  The 
titter  which  flew  around  the  room  at  his  appearance,  breaks  into  a  well 
denned  guffaw  at  this  exhibition  of  awkwardness,  and  the  crier  calls : 

"Si-lence!" 

Tufnell  turns  even  redder  than  before,  and  takes  out  a  red  pocket- 
handkerchief;  and  the  judge,  looking  up  fiercely  over  his  spectacles, 
admonishes  the  crowd  that  upon  a  repetition  of  their  breach  of  de- 
corum he  will  order  the  Court  to  be  cleared. 

This  has  a  most  salutary  effect;  an  instantaneous  hush  falls  upon 
the  assemblage,  and  Tufnell,  apparently  much  soothed  in  nerve  by 
the  restored  quiet,  as  well  as  by  the  vigorous  mopping  his  face  has 
undergone,  thrusts  his  handkerchief  into  his  coat-tail  pocket,  and 
smiles  good-naturedly  around.  He  is  one  of  those  strange  creatures 
who  with  the  very  best  intentions,  seem  by  their  very  presence  to 
take  away  from  the  solemnity  of  any  occasion,  and  he  very  nearly 
provokes  another  titter.1  But  he  is  supposed  to  be  one  of  the  most 
important  witnesses  for  the  prosecution,  and  the  anxiety  to  hear  his 
evidence  overcomes  the  risible  propensities  of  the  audience  even  more 
than  the  judge's  previous  warning,  and  checks  the  laugh.  Tufnell 
is  sworn,  the  usual  introductory  and  stereotyped  questions  answered 
satisfactorily,  and  in  reply  to  the  inevitable — "Did  you  know  the 
deceased  in  his  lifetime  ?  "  he  answers : 

"  I  did.  "We  were  friends  from  early  boyhood.  He  was,  in  fact, 
the  dearest  friend  I  ever  had;  and  this  trial,  I  may  say,  without 


BEHIND  THE  ARRAS.  211 

claiming  too  much,,  is  the  result  of  my  efforts  to  bring  his  murderer 
to  justice.  Of  the  prisoner  I  have  long  had  my  suspi  — 

"One  moment!"  exclaims  Mr.  Toddy,  jumping  to  his  feet. 
"  That  is  improper.  Your  suspicions  are  not  evidence.  I  object, 
my  lud." 

"We  do  not  contend  for  a  moment  that  they  are,"  says  Dawkins, 
quietly.  "  The  answer  was  not  responsive  to  any  question  of  mine. 
Never  mind  your  suspicions,  Mr.  Tufnell,"  he  adds,  as  Toddy  sub- 
sides into  his  seat,  "  but  state  what  were  the  circumstances,  if  any, 
that  aroused  them?" 

"  He  was  always  getting  me  out  of  scrapes/7  commences  Tufnell, 
rather  vaguely. 

"  Who?     The  prisoner?"  asks  Toddy,  with  a  grunt. 

Tufnell  looks  at  him  savagely. 

"No;  Louis  Dunraven,  the  man  he  murdered." 

Toddy  jumps  to  his  feet  again. 

"  Now,  I  ask  your  lordship  if  that  is  proper?" 

"Certainly  not,"  says  his  lordship,  very  sternly,  and  thereupon 
delivers  to  Tufnell  a  lengthy  lecture  upon  the  impropriety  and 
danger  of  a  witness  usurping  the  province  of  the  jury,  a  dissertation 
much  too  learned,  and  far  too  tedious,  for  me  to  repeat  here.  The 
end  of  it  is,  that  Toddy  sits  down  again  and  Tufnell  proceeds. 

"Louis  Dunraven — as  I  before  stated — "  he  says  with  a  look 
at  Toddy,  "  was  always  getting  me  out  of  scrapes.  Once  he  came 
to  take  me  away  from  a  low  gambling  den,  where,  I'm  ashamed 
to  say  I  was,  and  there  in  his  presence  I  got  into  a  row  with 
the  pris — " 

"  One  moment,"  interrupts  Toddy,  again  rising.  "  I  object  to  all 
this,  my  lud.  We  are  here,  may  it  please  your  lordship,  to  try  a 
man  for  his  life,  and  not  to  listen  to  a  confession  of  youthful  follies, 
which  may  be  all  very  proper  and  praiseworthy,  and  commendable, 
in  its  proper  place." 

His  lordship  looks  as  though  he  would  like  to  hear  from  the  other 
side,  and  Dawkins  is  about  to  respond,  when  a  sign  from  his  asso- 
ciate checks  him,  and  for  the  first  time  in  the  progress  of  the  trial, 
Sergeant  Headstrong  gets  upon  his  feet. 

It  has  hitherto  doubtless  been  a  puzzle  to  many,  what  in  the  world 
such  a  personage  as  Sergeant  Headstrong  was  in  the  case  for  at  all; 
for  apparently,  so  far,  not  a  word  has  he  uttered,  not  a  move  has  he 
made,  but  has  sat  there  in  his  seat  like  a  bewigged  statue,  and  for 
all  that  he  has  appeared  to  have  done,  he  might  as  well  have  been 
in  his  chambers  in  Lincoln's  Inn.  Such  had  been  my  impression, 
until  Mr.  Tufnell  enlightened  me. 


212  BEHIND  THE  ARRAS. 

((  Done  nothing!"  he  exclaimed,  in  answer  to -my  question.  "  He 
has  done  everything.  To  all  appearances  he  lets  Dawkins  manage 
the  case;  for  Dawkins  is  a  Q.  C.,  and  Q.  C.s  don't  like  coaching  in 
public,  as  a  rule,  even  from  sergeants-at-law,  but  it's  safe  to  say, 
there  hasn't  been  a  question  of  importance  asked  to-day  that  old 
Headstrong  hasn't  either  dictated  or  made  some  timely  suggestion 
about,  though  you  or  I  couldn't  see  it  with  his  back  to  us.  He 
does  it  all  by  a  sort  of  pantomime;  a  wink  here,  a  half  frown  there; 
an  elevation  of  the  eyebrows,  or  a  smoothing  down  of  his  bands 
with  the  feather  of  his  pen.  Dawkins  knows  all  his  signs  like  a 
book,  and  sees  them  all  with  the  side  of  his  eye,  for  before  he  got 
his  silk  gown,  he  used  to  be  junior  to  Headstrong  in  no  end  of  cases 
and  learned  all  the  old  fellow's  ways ;  and  now  whenever  they 
happen  to  hold  briefs  on  the  same  sicje — which  is  often,  they  pull 
together  so  well — Dawkins,  though  now  a  Q.  C.,  is  willing,  for  old 
times  sake,  as  it  were,  to  play  junior  to  his  old  leader  without  ap- 
pearing to  do  so.  This,  at  least,  is  what  my  solicitors  tell  me,  and 
they  consider  us  very  fortunate  in  having  secured  such  a  team  as 
Headstrong  and  Dawkins  on  the  Crown  side  to-day." 

But  I  have  left  the  worthy  Sergeant  upon  his  feet.  That  he  is  a  tall, 
broad-shouldered  man,  with  tufts  of  grey  hair  sticking  out  under 
his  wig,  and  grizzled  whiskers  that  stand  out  on  either  side  of  his 
face  like  open  window-shutters,  is  all  that  I  can  see  over  the  inter- 
vening heads,  for  his  back  remains  as  it  has  been,  towards  me. 

"May  it  please  your  lordship,"  he  begins,  in  a  clear  resonant 
voice  that  echoes  through  the  court.  "  My  learned  brother,"  with 
a  motion  of  the  thumb  toward  Toddy,  "should  not  forget  that  the 
evidence  on  the  part  of  the  prosecution  is,  as  was  stated  in  the  open- 
ing, of  necessity,  circumstantial  in  its  character.  Such  being  the 
case,  it  is  a  difficult  matter  to  determine  what  facts  are  not  admis- 
sible in  evidence  that  would  in  any  manner  even  tend  to  point  to 
the  prisoner's  guilt,  or  in  any  way  illumine  the  path  of  the  jury  in 
their  search  for  the  truth.  The  facts  which  the  witness  was  about 
to  testify  to  transpired  many  years  ago,  some  time  indeed  before 
the  commission  of  the  murder,  and,  I  think,  it  is  not  improper  for 
me  to  say,  will  disclose  in  the  recital  of  them,  much  that  is  proper 
for  the  jury  to  hear,  in  order  to  enable  them  to  arrive  at  a  just  ver- 
dict. In  the  recital  of  these  facts,  there  may,  of  course,  be  many 
things  spoken  of  and  alluded  to,  which,  of  themselves,  are  imma- 
terial and  inadmissible,  but  which  when  viewed  in  connection  with 
other  circumstances  become  important.  I  therefore  ask  that  the 
witness  be  allowed  to  go  on  without  captious  interruption,  and  re- 
late in  his  own  way  all  the  facts  and  circumstances  in  his  own 


BEHIND  THE  ARRAS.  213 

knowledge  that  aroused  his  suspicions  of  the  prisoner's  guilt,  and 
if  necessary,  the  wheat  of  his  evidence  can  be  separated  from  the 
chaff  when  your  lordship  sums  up.  The  witness,  I  may  add,  is  an 
intelligent  witness,  and  I  feel  confident  will  furnish  us  with  more 
of  the  former  than  the  latter.  In  support  of  these  views,  if  indeed 
support  they  need,  I  will  cite,  if  your  lordship  pleases,  Starkie  on 
Evidence  (pages  20-21  and  78-79),  and  the  case  of  Rex  v.  Chuddleigh 
(2  Russell  &  Ryan's  Reports,  page  642),  a  case  very  similar  to  the 
one  at  bar,  in  which  Lord  Chief  Justice  Abbott  lays  down  the  rule 
in  a  very  elaborate  opinion." 

This  is  in  a  measure  all  Greek  to  me,  and  as  I  catch  Tufnell's  eye 
as  he  stands  in  the  witness-box,  he  grins  at  me.  But  the  long  and 
the  short  of  it  is  that  Toddy's  objection  is  overruled  by  the  judge, 
and  Sergeant  Headstrong  seats  himself  with,  as  a  young  gentleman 
behind  me,  evidently  a  cricketer,  expresses  it  "  the  air  of  a  slogger 
who  has  just  made  a  swipe  to  square  leg  for  six." 

Tufnell  goes  on  where  he  left  off. 

' '  I  got  into  a  row  with  the  prisoner,  as  I  was  saying,  at  the  gam- 
bling house.  We  afterwards  fought  a  duel,  and  I  wounded  him. 
One  day,  when  he  was  recovering  from  the  wround,  Dunraven  and  I 
were " 

Toddy:  "One  moment.  Can't  you  fix  the  date?  How  long  be- 
fore the  homicide  was  this  ? ' ' 

Tufnell:  "Three  months  perhaps— not  more.  Dunraven  and  I 
were  out  walking  in  London  one  evening.  "We  stopped  at  a  house 
in  Finsbury  Circus  and  Dunraven  said,  '  Do  you  mind  coming  in  a 
moment,  Tufnell  ?  I  want  to  see  Silliman,  and  you  can  wait  in  an- 
other room.'  I  consented.  We  were  shown  into  a  front  room,  and 
Dunraven  passed  into  the  one  beyond,  leaving  me  alone.  He  left 
the  door  between  the  rooms  ajar  and  as  I  felt  a  sort  of  grim  curiosity 
to  see  the  man  I  had  wounded,  for  I  hadn't  seen  him  since  the  duel, 
before  I  knew  what  I  was  about  I  was  looking  through  the  aperture 
at  the  prisoner  lying  upon  his  bed.  He  did  not  see  me  for  I  stood 
far  back  and  the  light  was  dim.  A  lamp  upon  a  table  beside  his 
bed  shone  full  in  his  face  however,  and  I  saw  it  plainly  as  he  turned 
his  head  and  looked  at  Dunraven.  He  half  rose  in  the  bed  and  with 
a  diabolical  look  upon  his  face,  swore  a  great  oath.  '  If  I  ever  have 
an  opportunity,  and  be  sure  I  will  make  one/  he  said,  '  I'll  be  even 
with  you  yet  for  this,  you  white-livered,  lying,  hypocritical,  psalm- 
singing  parson!  But  for  your  interference  with  that  unlicked  cub, 

I  would  not  be  here  now.  I  owe  it  all  to  you,  d n  you!  and  so 

sure  as  there  is  a  Heaven  above  us  I  will' be  revenged/ 

Dunraven  very  quietly  answered:  'Leave  Bratton  at  once,  give  up 


214  BEHIND   THE  ARRAS. 

the  house  you  have  rented  there,  and  remove  from  the  neighborhood 
at  once  and  forever,  and  I  will  spare  your  reputation,  but  I  cannot 
conscientiously  permit  a  man  of  your  character  to  live  among  my 
friends  and  impose  himself  upon  them  as  a  man  of  honor  and  a 
gentleman,  when  I  know  him  to  be  the  reverse.  Never  return  there, 
but  as  soon  as  you  are  able  to  attend  to  it,  give  up  your  lease — it 
will  be  accepted  I'll  promise  you — and  have  your  traps  sent  up  to 
you  here;  but  never  show  your  face  there  again.  That  is  all  I  ask/ 
I  suddenly  remembered  that  I  had  no  right  to  listen  and  turned  away. 
I  still  heard  their  voices  for  some  time,  as  if  in  argument — then  the 
prisoner's  grew  loud  and  angry.  Believing  him  to  be  a  desperate 
man,  especially  after  the  threat  he  had  uttered,  I  had  fears  for  Dun- 
raven's  safety,  even  though  I  knew  the  prisoner  to  be  weak,  for  it 
wouldn't  require  much  strength  to  pull  a  trigger,  I  thought,  and 
those  sort  of  fellows  always  keep  pistols  under  their  pillows.  So  I 
walked  over  to  the  door  again  and  glanced  in.  Dunraven  was  com- 
ing towards  the  doorway  with  his  back  to  the  bed,  and  there  I  be- 
held the  prisoner  in  the  act  of  cocking  a  pistol,  with  a  look  of  in- 
tense hatred  fixed  upon  my  friend.  He  tried  to  level  the  weapon  at 
Dunraven,  steadying  one  hand  with  the  other  while  he  took  deliber- 
ate aim.  I  was  about  to  spring  forward  and  shout  to  Dunraven, 
when  a  sudden  twinge  of  pain  seemed  to  seize  the  prisoner,  he  grew 
deathly  pale,  his  features  twitched  convulsively,  and  letting  the  pis- 
tol fall  on  the  counterpane,  he  sank  back  with  a  groan.  All  had 
passed  in  an  instant,  and  the  next  moment  Dunraven  and  I  found 
ourselves  in  the  street.  I  told  Dunraven  what  I  had  seen,  but  he 
only  laughed  and  made  light  of  it.  These  are  the  facts  on  which 
my  suspicions  have  been  based." 

Toddy  believes  that  Tufnell  is  the  most  important  witness  the 
prosecution  will  be  able  to  produce;  without  him  the  one  great  evi- 
dentiary fact — the  previous  threat — could  not  be  proven  against  his 
client;  but  to  attempt  to  shake  him  in  his  present  confident  mood 
would  be  useless.  Yet  he  thinks  from  his  manner  of  entering  the 
box,  he  can  be  easily  excited  and  thrown  off  his  balance.  To  that 
end,  with  the  help  of  a  little  gentle  badgering,  Mr.  Toddy,  Q.  C., 
applies  himself  without  delay. 

Toddy.  "  Why  didn't  you  give  your  evidence  at  the  inquest?" 

Tufnell.  "  I  didn't  happen  to  be  in  England  at  the  time.  I  sup- 
pose that  was  the  reason." 

Toddy  (with  a  sneer).  "And  you  couldn't  make  it  your  business  to 
return  to  see  justice  done  on  behalf  of  your  best  friend  on  earth — I 
believe  that's  what  you  called  the  deceased  ?" 

Tufnell.  "I  was  somewhere  in  the  wilds  of  South  Africa  at  the 


BEHIND   THE  ARRAS.  215 

time,  rather  beyond  the  reach  of  either  mails  or  telegraphs,  and 
knew  nothing  of  the  murder.  The  first  I  knew  of  it  was  three  years 
ago." 

Toddy.  "  Three  years  ago!  Come  now,  that's  too  good.  A  man 
ignorant  of  the  death  of  his  c  best  friend  on  earth  '  for  fifteen  years 
after  it  takes  place !  "Where,  in  the  name  of  common  sense,  have 
you  been  ever  since  ?  In  the  moon?" 

Tufnell.  "Not  exactly/' 

Toddy.  "  Up  in  a  balioon  ?" 

Tufnell.   "No." 

Toddy.  "Where  then?" 

Tufnell.  "On  earth."  (Laughter.)  The  judge  looks  up  with  a 
scowl. 

Toddy.  "  On  earth,  eh?  And  heard  nothing  of  your  friend  for 
fifteen  years !  You  spent  the  intervening  period  after  the  fashion  of 
Rip  Van  Winkle,  I  suppose  ?" 

Tufnell.  "No." 

Toddy.  "How  then?" 

Tufnell  (with  a  grin).  "  Traveling." 

Toddy.  "Ah!     Been  to  Egypt  ?" 

Tufnell.   ""Yes." 

Toddy.  "And  seen  the  Pyramids,  of  course?" 

Tufnell.   "  Oh,  yes." 

Toddy,  "  Sure  you're  not  one  of  the  chaps  out  of  Cheops?" 

Tufnell  (good  humoredly).  "  Quite  sure." 

Toddy.  "  Where  else  have  you  been  ?" 

Tufnell.  "  It  would  be  far  easier  for  me  to  tell  you  where  I  haven't 
been." 

Toddy.  "Well,  where  haven't  you  been,  then?" 

Tufnell.  "  To  the  best  of  my  recollection:  the  Polar  Sea,  the  Ant- 
arctic Continent,  and  a  place  called  Payta,  in  South  America." 

Toddy.  "And  what  made  you  leave  them  out?" 

Tufnell.  "  The  last  place  I  avoided  through  the  advice  of  an  Eng- 
lish naval  officer;  the  others,  I  couldn't  get  to,  unfortunately." 

Toddy.  "And  you've  been  everywhere  else?" 

Tufnell.  "Yes." 

Toddy.  "And  what  pray  sent  you  traveling  over  the  world  for  fif- 
teen years  like  that  ?" 

Tufnell.  "Money— I  haven't  a  doubt." 

Toddy  (warmly).  "Come,  answer  my  question.  You  know  per- 
fectly well  what  I  mean.  What  motive  had  you  in  keeping  away 
from  England  all  that  time?" 

As  Tufnell  answers  I  can  almost  fancy  I  see  his  eyes  flash  through 
his  spectacles. 


216  BEHIND  THE  ARRAS. 

"  What  my  motive  was,  sir,  I  deem  it  totally  unnecessary  for  you 
to  know,  or  for  me  to  inform  this  jury.  It  has  nothing  what  ever  to 
do  with  the  issue  in  this  case,  and  you  are  lawyer  enough,  I  take  it, 
to  know  that  your  question  is  not  cross-examination.  What  you 
want  to  get  at,  however,  I  will  tell  you  without  giving  you  the 
trouble  of  asking  so  many  questions.  I  left  England  eighteen 
years  ago,  unknown  to  a  soul  but  my  bankers.  They  even  didn't 
know  what  became  of  me  after  I  left  Egypt.  I  traveled — for  rea- 
sons which  it  is  my  desire  and  privilege  to  keep  secret — under  an 
assumed  name,  and  from  the  day  I  left  Liverpool  until  my  return 
fifteen  years  later,  I  corresponded  with  no  one,  never  saw  an  Eng- 
lish newspaper,  or  if  I  did,  studiously  avoided  reading  it.  Thus  it 
is  that  I  only  heard  of  my  friend  Louis  Dunraven's  death  for  the 
first  time  upon  my  return." 

Beyond  a  slight  hunching  up  of  his  shoulders,  and  the  merest 
trifle  of  a  nod  with  his  wig,  Toddy  takes  no  note  of  Tufnell's  retort; 
but  he  sees  it  is  a  waste  of  time  to  go  on  as  he  began,  so  he  stops 
his  bantering  and  asks:  "You  are  sure  the  man  you  saw  on  the  bed 
that  evening  eighteen  years  ago,"  drawing  the  words  out  with  a  sig- 
nificant grimace  for  the  benefit  of  the  jury,  "  and  who  pointed  the 
pistol  at  your  friend,  was  the  prisoner  at  the  bar  ?  " 

Tufnell:  (Confidently.)  "I  am.  And  I'll  tell  you  why  if  you 
like." 

Mr.  Toddy  does  not  appear  at  all  anxious  to  know  "why."  He 
believes  the  identification  will  be  damaging  to  his  cause,  and,  sorry 
he  asked  the  question  at  all,  is  about  to  lead  off  on  another  tack 
when  the  judge  growls  out: — 

"Go  on." 

Tufnell:  "  I  saw  "under  his  right  eye,  in  precisely  the  spot  where 
that  scar  now  appears,  a  barely-healed  cut  and  a  recent  discolora- 
tion of  the  skin  that  was  caused  by  a  blow  I  struck  him  when  I 
knocked  him  down  in  the  gambling-house  the  night  we  had  the  row. 
I  hit  him  with  my  left  hand,  and  this  ring,  which  I  wore  at  the  time, 
it  was  that  gave  the  cut.  It  is  a  singularly-shaped  scar  you  will  ob- 
serve, and  if  you  will  apply  the  ring  to  it  you  will  see  that,  strange 
as  it  may  appear,  the  edges  will  correspond." 

This  is  done,  and  Tufnell's  statement  so  far  corroborated. 

A  few  more  questions  Toddy  asks,  wishing  evidently  at  each  reply 
that  he  had  left  Tufnell  severely  alone;  but  vexed  alike  at  his  own 
ill  success,  and  the  other's  firmness,  he  cannot  refrain  from  giving 
him  one  parting  shot.  Shaking  his  wig  and  convulsing  his  gown, 
he  asks: — 

"Did  you,  or  do  you  know  to  whom  the  prisoner  referred  by  the 
expression,  '  that  unlicked  cub  ? '  " 


BEHIND   THE- ARRAS.  217 

Tafnell:  (Smiling.)  "Me,  of  course." 

Toddy:  ("With  an  expression  of  mock  surprise  that  would  have 
made  his  fortune  on  the  boards.)  "You!  You  an  unlicked  cub? 
Oh,  I  see.  (Light  seeming  to  dawn  on  him.)  You  were  eighteen 
years  younger  then.  That  is  all." 

If  it  had  been  a  theatre,  a  round  of  applause  would  have  greeted 
Toddy  as  he  sits  down  with  a  gratified  air  at  the  slap  he  thinks 
he  has  given  Tufnell.  As  it  is,  a  laugh  which  at  the  judge's  frown 
and  crier's  "si-lence!"  dwindles  into  an  inaudible  smile,  shows 
the  audience's  appreciation  of  his  parting  shot.  But  it  is  a  shot 
that  Tufnell  with  tact  deprives  of  much,  if  not  all  of  its  force,  by 
the  sensible  way  he  receives  it.  Instead  of  appearing  annoyed,  as 
ninety-nine  out  of  a  hundred  would,  he  turns  it  aside  with  the  shield 
of  his  good  humor,  and  leaves  the  box  with  a  smile  which  tells  that 
he  enjoys  the  joke,  though  it  be  at  his  own  expense,  quite  as  keenly 
as  any  one. 

The  court  now  adjourns  for  refreshments;  the  judge  toddles  off 
for  his  chop  and  glass  of  dry  sherry,  glad,  doubtless,  to  doff  that 
ponderous  wig,  if  even  but  for  a  half  hour;  and  we,  to  avoid  the 
crush  and  scramble  of  exit  and  re-entrance,  prefer  to  remain  com- 
fortably ensconced  where  we  are  till  the  end. 

"  It  will  be  but  laying  down  our  appetites  upon  the  altars  of  com- 
fort and  curiosity,"  says  Sir  Griffith;  "  a  sacrifice  which  I  have  no 
doubt  you  ladies  will  find  no  difficulty  in  making,  if  you  but  select  the 
latter  altar  for  your  offering.  Eh,  Strutt?  For  my  part,  were  it  not 
that  comfort  is  involved,  and  the  question  were  but  one  of  appetite 
or  curiosity,  I  confess  I  should  far  sooner  gratify  the  one  than  the 
other." 

"  From  the  way  I  look  at  the  question,  I  think  I  should  have  to 
agree  with  you,  Sir  Griffith,"  says  Mr.  Strutt. 

Our  sacrifice,  however,  is  one  that  Mr.  Tufnell  will  not  allow  to 
be  complete,  for  soon  he  appears,  followed  by  a  waiter  from  the 
coffee-room  of  the  hotel  across  the  way,  bearing  aloft  upon  a  tray  a 
goodly  supply  of  ham  sandwiches,  glasses,  and  two  quart  bottles  of 
"the  charming  widow."  We  are  at  first  doubtful  as  to  the  pro- 
priety of  the  proceeding,  and  hesitate  lest  so  glaring  a  contempt  of 
the  sacredness  of  its  tribunal  bring  upon  us  the  punitive  thunders 
of  the  outraged  majesty  of  the  law. 

"Perfectly  proper,"  Tufnell  says,  reading  our  looks;  "  the  court 
is  not  sitting  now,  and  you  might  smoke  if  you  liked.  I'll  leave  it 
to  Mr.  Strutt." 

Mr.  Strutt,  with  a  longing  eye  at  the  sandwiches,  concurs  without 
a  murmur,  and  Mr.  Strutt  is  an  authority  on  such  matters.  In  no 


218  BEHIND  THE  ARRAS. 

way  disposed  to  question  the  disinterestedness  of  his  concurrence  on 
the  present  occasion,  and  fortified  with  a  legal  opinion  on  the  sub- 
ject, our  misgivings  are  banished,  and  regardless  of  the  envious 
glances  of  our  less  fortunate  neighbors,  we  discuss  the  repast  that 
has  been  so  thoughtfully  provided  for  us,  and  the  evidence  that  has 
been  given,  at  the  same  time. 


CHAPTER  III. 

Not  yet  them  knowest  me,  and  seeing  me,  dost  not 
Think  me  for  the  man  I  am,  necessity 
Commands  me  name  myself. 

—  Coriolanus:  Act  IV,  Scene  5. 

'HE  recess  for  luncheon  is  over,  our  sandwiches  and  cham- 
pagne disposed  of,  those  of  the  audience  who  had  left  their 
places  for  a  breath  of  fresh  air,  or  something  more  sub- 
stantial, come  back  to  find  them  occupied  by  others  who 
refuse  to  deliver  up  possession;  the  jury  return  and  take  their 
seats  with  a  recuperated  expression  about  their  mouths;  the  counsel 
on  both  sides  are  in  their  places,  the  crier  yells:  "  Si-lence!"  again, 
making  far  more  noise  himself  than  anybody  else,  whereupon  the 
judge  re-enters,  seats  himself  with  much  dignity,  blows  his  nose, 
takes  out  his  spectacles  and  wipes  them  slowly  and  carefully  before 
putting  them  on,  gives  a  sort  of  nod  over  the  top  of  his  desk  at  no- 
body in  particular,  and  says:  "Proceed;"  and  the  case  of  Begina 
v.  Silliman  goes  on  again. 

Sergeant  Headstrong  rises  and  says: 

"Call  Alva  Ingolsby." 

"  What  can  he  possibly  know?"  think  I,  aloud,  as  in  response  to 
the  usual  summons,  Ingolsby  makes  his  way  to  the  witness-box  and 
is  sworn. 

11  Something  important,  you  may  be  sure,"  whispers  Tufnell,  who 
has  resumed  his  place  at  my  side,  with  a  queer  look,  "  or  old  Head- 
strong wouldn't  be  '  up  and  doing/  Listen. " 

"  What  is  your  name  ?"  asks  the  sergeant. 

Ingolsby  smiles  up  at  our  party,  and  keeps  his  eyes  upon  us  as 
he  gives  his  name  on  oath.  Distinctly  it  rings  through  the  court- 
room, and  there  follows  a  hum  of  excitement  as  many  start  up  in 
wonder.  Toddy  nearly  draws  his  gown  over  his  head  so  great  is  the 
convulsion  of  his  shoulders  at  the  announcement;  while  the  pris- 
oner starts  perceptibly,  gives  a  quick  and  searching  look  at  Ingolsby, 
turns  a  shade  paler,  as  he  studies  each  feature,  then  compress- 


BEHIND   THE  AREAS.  219 

ing  his  lips  hard,  he  nods  his  head  slightly  as  if  some  sudden  deter- 
mination had  taken  possession  of  him,  and  resumes  his  former 
attitude  and  expression  of  stony  indifference.  For  my  part,  I  sit  as 
one  dazed,  scarce  believing  that  I  heard  aright,  when  Ingolsby  an- 
swered so  quietly  but  impressively : 
"Guy  Egerton." 

Can  it  be  true  ?  he,  Alva  Ingolsby,  the  long-lost  Guy  Egerton  ? 
Hurriedly  I  glance  around  at  our  party,  seeking  some  explanation. 
Sir  Griffith  with  a  tearful  smile  motions  us  to  be  quiet,  for  not  to 
me  alone  is  this  unexpected.  Lady  Egerton  has  risen  wildly  to  her 
feet,  Lady  Amtenhurst  striving  to  soothe  her  emotion;  while  Flor- 
ence, who  sits  next  to  me,  pale  and  trembling,  grasps  my  arm  con- 
vulsively. Of  us  all,  Sir  Griffith,  Tufnell  and  Strutt  alone  prove 
their  previous  knowledge  by  present  calmness;  and  as  it  sud- 
denly occurs  to  me  that  I  can  best  solve  the  mystery  by  turning  my 
attention  to  the  witness  himself,  I  place  my  hand  upon  Florence's 
to  keep  her  still,  and  listen  to  the  testimony  with  the  strangest  feel- 
ing at  my  heart  I  have  ever  experienced,  as  Sergeant  Headstrong 
continues  the  examination. 
"Who  are  you?" 

"  I  am  the  son  of  Sir  Griffith  Egerton  of  Bratton  Hall." 
"  Did  you  know  the  deceased?" 
"  I  did.     I  was  with  him  on  the  day  he  was  killed." 
"  Please  state  all  the  circumstances  that  transpired  on  that  day, 
that  you  remember,  so  far  as  they  relate  to  the  death  of  Louis 
Dunraven." 

There  is  almost  absolute  silence  as  Guy — for  such  he  must  be 
henceforth — goes  on  and  relates  the  story  of  that  eventful  day,  now 
for  the  first  time  given  to  the  world  by  him  in  whose  keeping  it  has 
lain  hid  for  so  many  years,  and  so  intent  are  all  to  catch  each  word 
as  it  falls  from  his  lips — such  a  breathless  hush  is  there,  that  the 
crier's  services  are  unneeded,  and  the  scratching  of  the  pens  as  the 
evidence  is  taken  down  in  the  pauses,  would  alone  prevent  our  hear- 
ing the  proverbial  pin  should  the  dropping  thereof  by  any  chance 
occur. 

"  On  the  morning  of  the  twenty-second  of  September,  18—,  Louis 
Dunraven  and  I  left  Bratton  Hall  for  the  purpose  of  shooting  over 
Mr.  Tufnell's  property  at  Knocklofty.  It  was  about  ten  o'clock 
when  we  left  the  house,  and  we  walked  down  the  avenue  for  about 
a  quarter  of  a  mile,  and  then  took  a  short  cut  across  the  park  and 
through  the  fields.  I  remember  distinctly,  stopping  at  the  game- 
keeper Jennings'  on  the  way,  to  have  the  gun  fixed.  Dunraven  had, 
in  snapping  a  cap  to  clear  the  barrel  before  loading,  by  some  means 


220  BEHIND   THE  ARRAS. 

got  the  nipple  stopped  up  with  a  fragment  of  the  cap,  and  I  recol- 
lect being  very  impatient  at  the  delay  we  had  to  make  there,  as  I 
was  anxious  to  be  among  the  birds. 

"We  reached  the  ^dividing-hedge  between  our  place  and  Mr. 
Tufnell's,  and  walked  along  till  we  saw  a  keeper  on  the  other  side. 
We  hailed  him,  and  Dunraven  showed  him  the  permit.  He  let  us 
in  through  a  gate  some  distance  away,  and  showed  us  where  to  go. 
We  soon  got  among  the  birds  and  commenced  shooting.  After 
keeping  together  some  time,  we  separated,  Dunraven  striking  off  to 
some  outlying  covers,  leaving  me  to  pick  off  the  birds  that  would  be 
driven  in  by  him.  I  soon  lost  sight  of  him  among  the  bushes,  and 
he  seemed  to  be  having  good  sport,  for  every  time  he  shot,  both 
barrels  followed  one  another  in  quick  succession.  Presently  I 
heard  a  single  shot.  I  was  loading  my  gun  at  the  time,  and  my  ear 
having  got  accustomed,  as  it  were,  to  the  double  report,  I  paused  a 
moment  and  listened  for  the  second  shot.  None  came,  however, 
and  though  I  supposed,  of  course,  it  was  because  he  had  had  but 
one  bird  to  shoot  at,  I  don't  know  why,  but  it  seemed  to  strike  me 
all  of  a  sudden  as  strange.  The  sound  of  the  report,  too,  didn't 
seem  like  Dunraven's  gun.  It  was  sharper,  as  if  the  charge  had 
been  heavier.  It  then  occurred  to  me  that  some  one  else  might  be 
out  shooting  over  the  place,  whom  we  hadn't  seen  as  the  bushes 
were  very  thick  and  high.  Then  I  thought  that  couldn't  be,  for 
Mr.  Tufnell  himself  had  gone  abroad,  and  no  one  else  had  the  right 
to  shoot  there.  I  waited  and  listened,  but  no  more  shots  were 
fired.  Then  I  supposed  Dunraven  was  returning,  and  sat  down  on 
a  stone  to  wait  for  him.  Half  an  hour  passed  and  he  did  not  come. 
I  began  to  wonder  what  could  be  the  matter.  It  couldn't  be  that 
he  had  got  out  of  earshot,  for  he  couldn't  have  gone  much  farther 
without  getting  off  Mr.  Tufnell's  land  and  on  to  the  Delamayn 
place,  which  was  let  to  the  prisoner  at  the  time. 

"At  last  I  felt  alarmed  at  my  friend's  long  silence,  and  set  off  in 
search  of  him  in  the  direction  he  had  taken,  shouting  to  him  as  I 
walked  on.  I  received  no  answer  to  my  calls  and  kept  on  with  a 
strange  sense  of  dread  coming  over  me.  I  had  made  my  way  through 
the  bushes  for  perhaps  a  hundred  yards  or  so,  when  I  heard  a  rust- 
ling among  the  leaves  as  if  some  one  was  coming  toward  me.  I 
stopped,  thinking  it  was  Dunraven.  The  sound  continued  and 
presently  I  saw  the  figure  of  a  man  emerging  from  the  thicket.  I 
was  just  upon  the  point  of  calling  out,  when  I  saw  it  was  not  Dun- 
raven.  It  was  the  prisoner  at  the  bar.  He  had  a  double-barreled 
gun  under  his  arm,  and  his  face  was  pale  and  wore  an  anxious  ex- 
pression. He  stood  still  a  moment  and  looked  around  him  cau- 


BEHIND  THE  ARRAS.  221 

tiously,  then  back,  as  if  at  some  object  behind  him,  with  a  queerly- 
mingled  expression  of  gratification  and  repugnance.  He  then  struck 
off  to  the  right  in  the  direction  of  his  own  place,  and  disappeared 
among  the  trees.  He  had  evidently  not  seen  me,  and  as  soon  as  he 
was  well  out  of  sight,  I  started  on  again.  I  had  not  gone  far  when 
I  espied  a  dark  form  stretched  on  the  ground  under  a  tree.  Greatly 
frightened,  I  lan  up  to  it  and  found  it  was  Louis  Dunraven.  He 
lay  upon  his  back,  his  gun  by  his  side.  He  was  quite  dead,  and  the 
ground  beneath  him  seemed  to  be  saturated  with  blood,  and  blood 
oozed  from  between  his  lips.  I  was  stupified  with  horror,  my  gun 
dropped  from  my  hands,  and  I  knelt  down  beside  the  body,  and 
covering  my  face  with  my  hands  to  keep  out  the  terrible  sight,  I 
burst  into  tears.  How  long  I  remained  thus  I  cannot  tell,  but  sud- 
denly I  felt  a  hand  upon  my  shoulder.  I  looked  up  quickly,  and 
there  stood  the  prisoner.  He  caught  me  by  the  arm  and  accused 
me  of  murdering  my  friend.  I  sprang  to  my  feet  incensed  at  the 
horrible  accusation,  but  my  anger  rendered  me  speechless.  This  he 
pretended  to  construe  into  an  evidence  of  my  guilt.  Grasping  me 
tightly  by  the  arm,  he  said  it  would  be  useless  for  me  to  deny  it — of 
course  I  would  do  that,  it  was  but  natural;  but  that  he  had  heard 
the  shot  fired,  and  shortly  after  had  found  me  bending  over  the 
body,  and  his  evidence  with  all  the  corroborating  circumstances 
would  hang  me,  young  as  I  was.  At  a  glance  I  saw  the  position  I 
was  in.  In  my  unnerved  condition  I  exaggerated  it  of  course.  But 
I  was  very  young — not  yet  twelve — and  knew  nothing  of  law.  I  had 
heard  and  read  stories  of  how  men  had  been  convicted  on  circum- 
stantial evidence  of  murders  and  robberies  that  they  had  never  com- 
mitted, and  as  these  stories  all  came  back  to  my  mind,  my  fears  so 
worked  upon  my  imagination  that  I  already  felt  the  rope  around  my 
neck.  The  prisoner  affected  to  pity  me.  He  said  he  knew  my 
father  well  and  that  the  disgrace  would  kill  him.  The  shooting  of 
my  friend  might  have  been  an  accident;  he  hoped  for  his  part,  it 
was.  But  who  could  prove  it?  I  couldn't  testify,  and  the  circum- 
stances all  looked  the  other  way.  It  would  be  a  pity  to  see  so  young 
a  boy  hanged,  and  to  save  me  from  such  an  ignominious  death,  and 
my  people  from  the  terrible  disgrace,  he  would  help  me  to  evade 
justice  and  escape. 

"  In  the  state  of  mind  to  which  my  exaggerated  fears  and  his 
words  had  brought  me,  I  was  only  too  willing  to  accept  his  aid;  my 
gratitude  to  him  was  unbounded,  and  I  poured  forth  a  torrent  of 
thanks.  He  led  me  off  by  an  unfrequented  path,  helped  me  over 
the  wall  into  his  place,  and  bid  me  crawl  under  a  hedge.  *  Stay 
there/  he  said,  'and  as  you  value  your  life,  don't  let  a  soul  see 


222  BEHIND   THE  ARRAS. 

you.  I  will  come  for  you  after  dark  to-night,  and  bring  you  to  a 
place  where  you  will  be  safe.  And  here,  take  this  gun,'  he  added, 
giving  me  the  gun  be  had  been  carrying;  'you  have  your  neck  to 
save,  recollect,  at  any  cost,  and  may  need  it  to  keep  too  curious 
people  at  a  proper  distance/  I  took  the  gun,  having  in  my  haste 
forgotten  my  own  where  it  had  fallen  by  Dunraven's  body.  The 
prisoner  then  left  me.  After  he  had  gone  I  discovered  that  the 
gun  he  had  left  with  me  as  his  own  was  Dunraven's.  How  it  had 
come  into  his  possession  was  a  puzzle  to  me,  and  I  began  to  think 
he  had  done  it  purposely  to  fix  the  murder  upon  me,  and  had  gone 
off  to  inform  on  me  and  deliver  me  up.  Not  knowing  what  to  do 
with  the  gun,  and  fearing  to  stir  lest  I  should  betray  my  hiding- 
place,  and  expecting  every  moment  to  hear  the  officers  of  the  law 
coming  to  apprehend  me,  I  lay  under  the  hedge  all  day  in  an  agony 
of  fear.  When  it  was  quite  dark  the  prisoner  came  back.  He  told 
me  to  get  up,  and  warning  me  to  keep  silent,  and  step  as  noiselessly 
as  I  could,  brought  me  across  one  or  two  fields  to  an  old  barn,  be- 
hind his  stables,  and  there,  securely  locked  in  a  small  upper  room, 
he  kept  me  concealed  for  a  week,  bringing  me  food  morning  and 
evening.  When  I  had  had  time  to  reflect,  and  my  excitement  had 
cooled  down,  I  began  to  think  I  had  acted  very  foolishly,  and  had 
almost  made  up  my  mind  to  go  home,  tell  the  truth,  and  brave  the 
worst.  I  was  at  a  loss,  beside,  to  account  for  Silliman's  anxiety 
for  my  escape.  He  was  not  a  friend  of  my  father's — that  I  knew; 
barely  an  acquaintance,  in  fact,  as  he  was  a  comparative  stranger  in 
the  neighborhood,  and  I  couldn't  imagine  what  motive  he  could 
have  in  thus  befriending  me.  I  told  him  one  night  that  I  feared  I 
was  acting  unwisely  in  hiding  myself  in  this  way,  and  that  I  thought 
I  would  go  to  my  father  at  once  and  tell  him  all,  as  no  one  could 
possibly  suspect  me.  '  You  are  a  little  fool!'  he  exclaimed,  with  an 
oath.  He  took  a  newspaper  out  of  his  pocket  and  threw  it  to  me. 
'  Kead  that,'  he  said,  '  and  see  whether  anybody  could  possibly  sus- 
pect you.'  I  took  up  the  paper  and  the  first  thing  I  saw  was  the 
account  of  the  inquest  on  Dunraven's  body,  and  that  the  verdict  of 
the  coroner's  jury  had  accused  me  of  the  murder.  '  I  made  my 
testimony,  you'll  see,  as  strong  against  you  as  I  could,'  he  added. 
'  I  knew  it  would  really  make  no  difference  in  the  verdict,  as  the 
facts  were  all  so  dead  against  you,  how  my  evidence  went,  so  I 
thought  the  bitterer  I  was,  the  less  likely  would  they  be  of  suspect- 
ing me  of  aiding  and  abetting  your  escape.  By  Jove! '  said  he,  '  do 
you  know  I'm  positively  making  myself  an  accessory  after  the  fact 
in  doing  so  !  It  isn't  everybody  would  do  that  for  a  friend,  is  it, 
my  boy  ? ' 


BEHIND   THE  AERAS.  223 

"  When  I  found  that  I  was  thus  publicly  and  formally  accused  of 
the  crime,  I  was  overwhelmed.  All  my  fears  returned  with  redoub- 
led force,  and  I  no  longer  hesitated  to  fly.  That  night  Billiman 
brought  me  an  old  jacket  and  trousers,  and  a  battered-slouched  hat 
as  a  disguise.  I  left  my  own  clothes  hid  away  in  the  loft,  and  then 
he  let  me  out.  The  gun  which  he  had  given  me — Dunraven's — I 
had  kept,  and  wanted  to  take  with  me,  but  he  took  it  from  me.  He 
told  me  what  road  to  take,  and  said  for  me  to  walk  steadily  on 
along  the  high  road  toward  Hull,  and  he  would  follow  me  in  his  gig 
before  sunrise  next  morning,  and  pick  me  up.  I  gained  the  high 
road  and  walked  all  night  in  the  direction  he  had  named.  It  was  a 
bright  moonlight  night,  I  remember,  and  early  next  morning  Silli- 
man  caught  up  with  me  in  his  gig  about  fifteen  miles  from  Bratton. 
We  reached  Hull  about  noon,  and  there  he  got  me  a  position  as 
cabin-boy  on  the  American  bark  "Hiawatha."  There  he  left  me, 
after  buying  me  an  outfit  and  giving  me  £10  to  keep  my  pocket. 
In  two  days  the  bark  saile/1  for  New  York,  and  I  did  not  see  the 
prisoner  again  until  three  weeks  ago,  when  I  went  to  the  jail  to 
identify  him  upon  his  arrival  from  America  in  charge  of  the  officers. 
I  had  no  difficulty  whatever  in  recognizing  him.  He  is  older,  of 
course,  and  wears  a  beard,  but  his  face,  I  don't  think  I  shall  ever 
forget.  In  any  event  I  should  know  him  by  that  scar  under  his  eye. 
It  is  a  most  peculiar  one." 

"During  the  days  you  were  under  the  prisoner's  care,  did  he 
speak  to  you  of  the  deceased?"  asks  Headstrong. 

"  Once  he  said  that  the  world  was  well  rid  of  the  hypocritical 
parson,  and  I,  in  boyish  fashion,  fired  up,  and  defended  my  friend, 
He  then  became  furious,  and  I  thought  he  would  strike  me;  but  he 
controlled  himself  and  went  away." 

"  Are  you  the  Guy  Egerton,  you  say,  whom  the  verdict  of  the 
coroner's  jury  accused  of  the  murder?"  asks  Toddy,  in  cross-exami- 
nation. 

"  I  am." 

"  You  sailed  for  America,  you  say;  how  long  ago  was  that?" 

"Eighteen  years." 

"And  where  have  you  been  ever  since  ?    Traveling  too  ?" 

"I  remained  in  America  over  fifteen  years.  For  the  past  two 
years  and  a  half  I  have  been  in  England." 

"  What  name  have  you  borne?" 

"Alva  Ingolsby— a  name  I  assumed  in  the  United  States." 

"And  why  did  you  not  come  forward  and  acknowledge  yourself 
before  now?" 

"  I  waited  for  an  opportunity  to  clear  myself  from  the  accusation 
made  against  me." 


224  BEHIND   THE  ARRAS. 

"  Don't  you  know  you  could  have  done  that  at  any  time  by  deliv- 
ering yourself  up  and  standing  your  trial  like  a  man — if  you  were 
innocent  ?" 

"Yes.  But  I  desired  more  than  simply  to  clear  myself.  I  de- 
sired to  bring  the  real  murderer  to  justice." 

"And  failing  to  secure  the  indictment  of  some  other  person  for 
the  crime,  you  would  have  lived  and  died  as  Alva  Ingolsby,  I  sup- 
pose." 

"  Not  by  any  means.  I  returned  to  England  for  the  purpose  of 
claiming  my  own  name.  I  came  to  Bratton  and  made  myself  known 
to  my  father.  I  told  him  the  whole  story  as  I  have  told  it  here  to- 
day. Mr.  Tufnell  had  previously  been  to  him  for  his  assistance  in 
getting  together  evidence  against  the  prisoner  whom  he  said  he  sus- 
pected. We  three  consulted  together  and  it  was  determined  to 
keep  my  existence  a  secret  until  the  whole  case  was  completed  and 
Silliman  in  the  hands  of  the  law." 

The  deposition  of  Captain  AY aterman  of  the  bark  "Hiawatha," 
now  a  large  ship-owner  in  Boston,  taken  under-a  commission,  is  now 
read  in  evidence.  It  corroborates  Guy  in  every  fact  relating  to  his 
shipping  as  cabin-boy  at  Hull,  and  gives  a  description  of  the  man 
who  accompanied  him  and  procured  him  the  berth,  that  tallies  with 
the  appearance  of  Silliman  as  he  is  remembered  by  old  Brattonites, 
in  every  particular.  Sir  Griffith  is  also  about  to  enter  the  box  for 
the  purpose  of  testifying  to  the  identity  of  his  son;  but  Mr.  Toddy, 
who  manifestly  thinks  he  will  make  a  point  with  the  jury  thereby, 
says  he  will  make  no  question  as  to  that,  and  Sir  Griffith  quietly 
withdraws.  This  closes  the  case  for  the  crown,  and  Mr.  Toddy,  Q. 
C.,  rises  to  address  the  jury  for  the  prisoner. 


CHAPTER   IV. 

Guilty,  my  lord,  guilty;  I  confess,  I  confess. 

—  Love's  Labor  Lost:  Act  IV,  Scene  3. 

'K.  Toddy  begins  by  saying  that  the  prisoner  at  the  bar 
stands  in  the  truly  unfortunate  position  of  being  without 
one  human  being  to  bear  testimony  for  him.  "The  very 
''nature  of  the  case,  the  very  character  of  the  evidence  ad- 
duced by  the  prosecution  precludes  the  possibility  of  his  being  able 
to  produce  any  witnesses  on  his  behalf.  Eighteen  long  years  have 
been  allowed  to  pass  since  the  crime  with  which  he  is  charged  was 
committed,  and  during  that  time  the  prosecution,  or  rather  the  tool 


BEHIND  THE  AREAS.  225 

of  the  prosecution,  this  man  Jolliffe  Tufnell,  has  been  busy  gather- 
ing together  the  threads  of  the  fabric  which  they  have  sought  to 
weave  about  the  prisoner  to-day.  There  is  no  direct  proof  of  his 
guilt  offered  in  the  case.  It  is  all  inference  from  facts,  which,  of 
themselves,  taken  by  themselves,  fairly  and  without  prejudice,  are 
perfectly  consistent  with  the  prisoner's  innocence.  After  an  eigh- 
teen-year's  long  sleep  this  charge  is  raked  up  against  this  man, 
when  death  and  time  have  silenced  and  scattered  those  who  might 
to-day  have  spoken  for  him.  His  wife  is  dead,  his  servants  gone, 
no  one  knows  whither,  not  a  soul  living  who  could  prove  for  him 
the  one  great  and  powerful  fact  in  cases  of  circumstantial  evidence, 
an  alibi.  Of  all  his  household  who  could  speak  of  his  whereabouts 
on  that  unhappy  day,  he  himself  alone  remains;  but,  gentlemen  of 
the  jury,  so  far  from  his  being  able  to  tell  you  aught  of  the  occur- 
rences of  that  day,  he  too  might  as  well  be  dead  and  gone,  for  by 
the  inexorable  laws  of  his  country,  his  lips  are  sealed.  They  have 
chosen  well  their  time,  gentlemen  of  the  jury;  they  have  exhibited 
rare  strategy."  He  warns  the  jury  against  relying  on  the  testimony 
of  witnesses  who  have  remained  silent  for  so  long  a  time  without  a 
better  excuse  for  their  silence  than  has  been  given,  and  pays  his 
respect  to  each  witness  in  turn,  showing  up  the  weak  points  of  their 
evidence,  and  slurring  over  the  strong. 

"Take  the  two  chief  witnesses  for  the  crown,"  he  goes  on;  "  the 
only  witnesses,  I  might  say,  for  the  others  are  mere  puppets  ready 
to  answer  any  pull  of  the  string  their  masters  may  cboose  to  give; 
let  us  take  these  two,  and  see  who  they  are.  One  yet  remains  ac- 
cused by  a  sworn  jury  of  the  very  crime  of  which  the  prisoner  at  the 
bar  now  stands  indicted.  What  such  a  witness's  interest  in  secur- 
ing a  conviction  must  be,  it  is  unnecessary,  I  am  confident,  for  me 
to  even  hint  to  you;  for  I  take  it,  gentlemen  of  the  jury,  that  you  are 
men  endowed  with  at  least  ordinary  human  reason,  and  can  see  that 
for  yourselves.  Why,  by  his  own  confession,  he  admits  his  prime 
motive  to  be  to  clear  his  own  name.  Of  course,  his  desire,  as  he- 
tells  you,  to  bring  the  murderer  of  his  friend  Louis  Dunraven  to 
justice,  is  all  very  well,  and  very  praiseworthy,  and  very  proper; 
but,  gentlemen  of  the  jury,  a  desire  that  has  been  kept  under  con- 
trol', such  wonderfully  perfect  control,  that  it  never  gave  sign  of  its 
existence  for  a  period  of  fifteen  years,  and  then  only  when  its  pos- 
sessor desired  to  return  to  his  native  land,  and  claim  his  ancestral 
name,  cannot  be,  cannot  ever  have  been,  a  very  consuming  one,  and 
is  about  on  a  par  with  this  man  Tufnell's  indifference  as  to  the  wel- 
fare, condition  or  fate  of  his  dearest  friend  on  earth,  for  about  the 
same  period  of  time.  If  Louis  Dunraven  could  speak  to-day,  he 
15 


226  BEHIND   THE  ARRAS. 

might  well  exclaim:  'Save  me  from  my  friends!'  As  for  tins  man 
Tufuell,  the  other  of  this  wonderful  pair,  I  hardly  deem  it  necessary 
for  me  to  speak  of  him,  or  the  marvelous  story  he  has  related  here 
to-day." 

He  nevertheless  does  at  considerable  length  and  with  much  as- 
perity. "But,  gentlemen  of  the  jury/'  he  continues,  "why  need  I 
say  more  ?  It  is  for  the  prosecution  to  prove  the  prisoner  guilty,  not 
for  the  prisoner  to  prove  himself  innocent.  Have  they  done  so  ? 
That  is  for  you  to  say  by  your  verdict.  I  assure  you,  gentlemen  of 
the  jury,  that  never  in  my  professional  career,  and  I  flatter  myself," 
he  adds  with  a  consequential  simper,  "it  has  been  one  of  rather 
varied  experience — never  have  I  seen  a  weaker  case  made  out  on  be- 
half of  the  Crown."  He  then  goes  on  to  admonish  them  of  the  dan- 
gers and  pitfalls  of  circumstantial  evidence.  "  Circumstantial  evi- 
dence, eighteen  years  old,"  he  reiterates.  "  The  only  consideration 
it  should  receive  at  your  hands,  gentlemen  of  the  jury,  is  a  respect 
for  its  age."  He  impresses  upon  them  the  fact  that  it  is  their  duty 
to  acquit  if  there  be  one  link,  even  the  smallest,  weakest  link,  miss- 
ing in  the  chain,  for  the  strength  of  the  whole  chain  is  that  of  its 
weakest  link — no  greater — and  every  reasonable  doubt  must  be 
thrown  in  favor  of  acquittal.  He  reminds  them  of  the  immense, 
the  grave,  the  awful  responsibility  that  rests  upon  them — the  life  of 
a  fellow  creature  swings  in  the  balance,  dependent  upon  their  word 
as  to  its  fate;  a  human  life  is  in  their  hands.  But  let  them  re- 
member their  duty  and  their  oaths,  and  he  will  have  no  fear  as 
to  the  result.  And  then,  with  a  mingled  appeal  to  their  sympathy 
for  the  man  who  stands  before  them  comparatively  friendless  and 
alone,  and  a  last  admonition  to  remember  the  tremendous  responsi- 
bility resting  upon  their  shoulders, — "  a  responsibility  from  which 
strong  men  might  well  shrink,  or  at  which  brave  men  might  well 
shudder,"  Mr.  Toddy  concludes  his  hour  and  a  half's  speech. 

"The  usual  stereotyped  'speech  for  the  prisoner,'"  says  Tufnell 
with  a  spice  of  animosity  in  his  voice  as  Toddy  sits  down.  "I've 
heard  a  good  many  of  them  in  my  life,  and  they're  all  alike.  The 
facts  of  each  case  differ  vastly  of  course,  but  the  '  speech  for  the 
prisoner/  is  the  same  from  beginning  to  end  the  world  over.  It's 
the  identical  terrible  responsibility— reasonable  doubt— sworn  duty 
— life  at  stake — fellow  creature  —  every-raan-iiinocent-till-proved- 
guilty,  harangue  in  all  of  them." 

Sergeant  Headstrong  follows  in  a  speech  an  hour  long.  He  meets 
all  of  Toddy's  objections  at  every  point;  shows  the  great  difficulty 
the  witnesses  for  the  prosecution  have  labored  under;  that  their  long 
silence,  so  far  from  being  suspicious,  has  been  owing  to  the  igno- 


BEHIND   THE  ARRAS.  227 

ranee  of  what  each  other  knew,  and  a  consequent  impossibility  of 
concerted  action  while  that  ignorance  continued;  pays  a  glowing 
tribute  to  the  zeal  and  untiring  industry  of  Jolliffe  Tufnell;  takes 
Toddy  severely  to  task  for  his  unmerited  strictures  both  on  him  and 
Guy,  and  administers  something  more  than  a  mild  rebuke  in  return; 
goes  carefully  over  the  evidence  and  reweaves  before  the  jury,  thread 
by  thread  and  piece  by  piece,  the  net  that  surrounds  the  wretch  at 
the  bar;  demonstrates  in  the  most  convincing  manner  the  presence 
of  every  necessary  link  in  the  "  strongest  chain  of  circumstantial 
evidence  that  has  ever  been  wrought  in  any  case,  and  he  flatters  him- 
self that  his  experience  has  been  somewhat  extensive,  though  prob- 
ably not  quite  so  varied  as  that  of  his  brother  Toddy; "  and  after  ex- 
plaining the  difference  between  direct  and  indirect  or  circumstan- 
tial evidence,  and  claiming  for  the  latter  a  superiority  in  proving 
power,  as  "  men  may  lie,  but  circumstances  can't/'  finishes  by  ask- 
ing the  jury  as  men  of  common  sense  to  look  at  all  the  circumstances 
of  the  case  "and  he  will  have  no  fear  of  the  result." 

The  judge  now  sums  up  the  case  to  the  jury,  and  in  his  unpreju- 
diced exposition  of  the  law  and  facts,  steers  a  middle  course  be- 
tween Toddy  and  Headstrong,  that  comes  like  oil  upon  the  troubled 
waters  of  the  jury  mind. 

At  6:45  the  jury  retire  to,  deliberate  on  their  verdict.  At  7: 33 
they  return  into  court.  There  is  death-like  silence  as  the  foreman 
announces,  in  a  shaky  voice : 

"  We  find  the  prisoner  at  the  bar  guilty  of  willful  murder." 

Silliman  hears  the  verdict  without  flinching.  Then  the  judge 
tells  him,  in  a  solemn  voice,  to  stand  up,  and  asks  him  if  he  has  any- 
thing to  say  why  sentence  of  death  should  not  be  passed  upon  him. 
Silliman  remains  silent  for  a  moment,  his  lips  set  tight;  but  not- 
withstanding the  compression,  the  corners  of  the  mouth  twitch 
nervously,  and  his  eyes  wander  wistfully  about.  Murderer  of  my 
poor  Louis,  as  I  firmly  believe  him  to  be,  I  cannot  help  pitying  the 
wretch,  as  friendless  and  alone  he  stands  there,  striving  to  appear 
self-possessed  and  indifferent,  in  the  face  of  the  most  terrible  doom 
that  can  come  upon  man  on  earth.  At  length  his  lips  move,  his 
fingers  clutch  at  the  dock-railing  in  front  of  him,  and  he  says 
hoarsely : 

"No;  I  have  nothing  to  say.  That  is,  I  have  no  reason  to  ad- 
vance why  the  law  should  not  now  take  its  course.  On  the  contrary, 
I  acknowledge  the  justice  of  the  verdict.  But  I  do  not  wish  any 
one  who  hears  me  now,  to  imagine  that  I  am  impelled  to  make  this 
admission  by  any  such  maudlin  stuff  and  nonsense  as  qualms  of 
conscience.  I  have  been  playing  a  desperate  game,  with  all  the 


228  BEHIND  THE  ARRAS. 

odds  against  me;  yet,  while  there  remained  the  ghost  of  a  chance 
for  me,  I  didn't  give  up  hope.  But  a  card  was  played  against  me 
to-day  that  I  was  unprepared  for — a  card  that  I  didn't  think  was 
out — that  I  didn't  believe  was  in  the  pack,  even,  and  then  I  knew 
the  game  was  up.  That  card  was  Guy  Egerton.  Still  I  had  one 
trump  left,  my  counsel's  speech.  I  played  that,  and  good  as  it  was, 
it  couldn't  overcome  the  odds  against  me.  And  now  I  wish  to  say 
here  to  my  friend  Mr.  Toddy,  for  a  friend  he  has  indeed  proved  him- 
self to  me,  that  I  thank  him  sincerely  for  the  very  able  defense  he 
has  rriade  to-day  in  my  behalf,  and  that  I  hope  he  will  not  think  too 
hardly  of  me  for  deceiving  him  as  I  have  from  the  beginning.  My 
only  excuse  for  doing  so  must  be,  my  fear  that  he  would  throw  up 
my  case  if  I  told  him  the  truth;  at  all  events,  I  thought  he  would 
make  a  stronger  defense  if  he  believed  me  to  be  innocent.  I 
couldn't  afford,  with  my  life  at  stake,  you  see,  to  take  the  chances 
on  such  a  vital  point.  But  now,  finding  myself  as  I  do,  without  a 
trump  left  in  my  hand,  what  can  I  do  but  throw  down  my  cards 
and  give  up  the  game  like  a  man  ?  I  did  kill  Louis  Dunraven.  I 
confess  it.  What  my  motive  was,  has  been  but  partially  indicated 
by  the  evidence.  I  had  deeper  and  greater  reasons  for  hating  him 
than  any  one  living  knows.  What  those  reasons  were,  I  do  not 
choose  to  state,  nor  is  it  necessary.  Suffice  it  to  say,  that  I  hated 
him  with  a  deadly,  insatiable  hatred. 

''That  day,  eighteen  years  ago,  I  knew  that  he  and  young  Guy 
Egerton  were  going  to  shoot  over  the  Tufnell  place.  I  lay  in  wait 
for  them,  and  watched  their  movements.  When  they  separated,  I 
followed  Dunraven  stealthily.  Three  or  four  times  before  then  I 
was  on  the  point  of  shooting  him  from  behind  a  tree,  but  each  time 
something  prevented.  At  length,  as  I  said,  they  separated.  I 
dogged  him,  and  creeping  noiselessly  upon  him  from  behind  to 
within  three  or  four  yards,  just  as  he  was  stooping  to  pick  up  a 
bird  he  had  shot,  I  took  deliberate  aim  under  his  right  shoulder- 
blade,  and  fired.'  He  straightened  up,  and  then  throwing  up  his 
arms,  with  a  sharp  cry  fell  backward  among  the  tangled  grass.  I 
stood  ready  to  give  him  the  second  barrel,  if  he  showed  any  decided 
signs  of  life;  but  he  only  gave  a  sort  of  spasmodic  quiver,  and  then 
straightened  out  and  lay  quite  still.  I  stood  watching  him  for 
nearly  half  an  hour,  and  then  ventured  up  and  felt  for  his  heart. 
It  had  ceased  to  beat:  he  was  dead.  I  didn't  stay  long  there  after 
that,  but  started  to  go  home.  I  had  got  some  distance  away  when 
I  discovered  that  I  had  left  niy  gun  beside  the  body  and  had  picked 
up  the  other  one  in  place  of  it  when  I  came  away.  I  hurried  back  to 
remedy  my  blunder,  but  what  was  my  chagrin  to  find  the  boy  Guy 


BEHIND   THE  ARRAS.  229 

bending  over  his  friend's  body.  My  first  impulse  was  to  kill  him, 
too.  I  wish  to  heaven  now  that  I  had!  My  gun  was  up  to  my 
shoulder  and  my  finger  pressing  the  trigger,  when  the  thought  of 
accusing  him  of  the  crime  suggested  itself  to  me,  like  a  flash.  Like 
a  fool — as  to-day  has  been  proved — I  acted  on  the*  second  thought 
and  let  the  boy  live.  All  that  took  place  after  that  has  been  truth- 
fully detailed  by  Guy  Egerton.  I  will  not  waste  time  in  repeating  it. 

I  will  state,  however,  that  in  the  excitement  of  finding  the  boy 
there  and  getting  him  away  in  accordance  with  my  plan,  I  forgot 
the  object  of  my  return,  and  carried  away  Dunraven's  gun  a  second 
time.  So  I  gave  it  to  the  boy,  knowing  that  if  by  any  chance  he 
should  be  found  hiding  away  under  the  hedge  with  it  in  his  posses- 
sion, it  would  be  almost  proof  positive  of  his  guilt.  My  great  mis- 
take— next  to  not  shooting  him  when  I  found  him  at  the  body — was 
not  to  have  informed  on  him  while  he  lay  under  the  hedge.  While 
I  live — not  very  long  that  will  be  now,  by-the-bye — those  mistakes 
will  be  a  constant  source  of  unavailing  regret.  My  own  gun  I  was 
forced  to  sacrifice.  I  couldn't  go  back  a  second  time  for  it — fearing 
to  be  seen  about  there  so  much;  but,  as  it  luckily  hadn't  my  name 
on  it,  its  presence  there  wouldn't  implicate  me,  I  thought.  In  any 
event  I  could  have  coined  some  story  about  its  being  stolen,  now 
that  I  had  provided  myself  with  a  scapegoat.  But  I  never  felt 
quite  secure  till  the  boy  was  gone,  and  sailing  safely  away  on  the 
high  seas.  Shortly  after  this  I  lost  my  wife,  and  then  I  determined 
to  act  on  the  advice  Dunraven  had  given  me,  and  leave  Bratton. 
The  people  in  the  neighborhood,  had  begun — thanks  to  his  tattling 
tongue — to  give  me  the  cold  shoulder.  Not  that  they  had  ever  been 
much  the  other  way  to  me — the  good  people  of  Bratton  are  not 
given  to  opening  their  arms  very  wide  to  strangers,  as  a  rule — still 
there  was  a  difference,  slight  though  it  was.  That  didn't  trouble 
me  much,  however,  but  I  had  got  tired  of  the  pokey,  drowsy  place, 
which  I  had  only  consented  to  come  to  and  live  in  to  please  my 
wife.  So,  once  she  was  gone,  I  decided  to  throw  up  my  lease, 
sell  everything,  and  cut  the  place  for  good.  Where  I  went,  or  my 
doings  afterwards,  has,  of  course,  nothing  to  do  with  the  present 
matter;  nor  have  I  any  desire  to  inflict  upon  any  one  a  history  of 
my  life.  This,  I  believe,  is  about  all  I  have  to  say— not  why  sen- 
tence should  not — but  why  it  should  be  passed  upon  me.  I  am 
ready." 

It  has  grown  quite  dark  whilst  the  wretched  man  has  been  speak- 
ing, and  there  is  a  pause  after  he  gets  through  while  the  lights  are 
lit.  Nothing  now  remains  to  be  done  but  the  passing  of  the  death 
sentence.  This  scene  we  are  none  of  us  anxious  to  witness,  and  as 


230  BEHIND  THE  ARRAS. 

the  judge  is  putting  on  the  awful  black  cap,  our  party  rises  and 
leaves  the  gallery.  Guy,  who  has  been  waiting  below  since  he  left 
the  witness-box,  makes  his  way  to  his  mother's  side,  and  leaning 
upon  his  arm  she  goes  out.  Lady  Amteuhurst  with  Sir  Griffith, 
Lord  Amtenhurst  with  me,  and  Florence  with  Mr.  Tufnell  follow 
after,  Mr.  Strutt,  in  solitary  state,  bringing  up  the  rear. 

At  the  door  our  carriages  are  waiting,  and  in  a  few  minutes  we  are 
whirling  toward  home;  the  Amtenhursts  and  Strutt  in  one  carriage, 
the  Egertons  and  myself  in  the  other,  and  Tufnell  in  his  dog-cart. 
The  carriage-door  is  scarcely  shut  when  Lady  Egerton  turns  to  her 
son  who  sits  beside  her,  and  putting  her  arms  about  his  neck — she, 
the  cold  and  stately — falls  sobbing  on  his  shoulder.  Who  can  guess 
the  depths  of  feeling  in  every  human  heart,  till  the  hand  of  fate  un- 
seals their  fountains !  Her  maternal  affections  have  been  touched 
and  she  is  no  longer  the  self-possessed,  self-contained  woman,  but 
the  loving,  happy  mother;  and  feelings  long  dormant  are  aroused 
and  spring  into  renewed  life  and  strength,  as  she  clasps  her  only 
child  to  her  heart.  Guy  puts  his  strong  arm  around  her  and  bends 
his  manly  head  to  murmur  caressing  words  of  filial  love.  It  is  a 
touching  sight,  and  Sir  Griffith,  folding  his  arms  and  throwing  back 
his  head,  whistles  a  bar  or  two  of  "  The  Fine  Old  English  Gentle- 
man," very  allegro  and  pianissimo,  to  hide  his  emotion.  I  have  not 
yet  exchanged  a  word  with  Guy,  but  this  is  no  time  for  it.  He 
smiles  at  me  and  that  is  enough. 

We  drive  rapidly  and  soon  reach  home.  We  have  all  alighted 
when  the  other  carriage  drives  up.  Lord  Amtenhurst  helps  out  his 
wife  and  Guy  goes  forward  to  Florence's  assistance.  She  does  not 
take  his  outstretched  hand,  and  avoiding  his  eye,  springs  out.  But 
her  dress  catches  on  the  step  and  she  falls  forward  into  his  arms. 
Quickly  she  recovers  her  balance,  and  without  a  word,  her  face 
white,  and  lips  compressed,  rushes  up  the  steps  into  the  house,  and 
on  to  her  own  room.  Guy  looks  after  her  with  a  puzzled  expression, 
and  we  slowly  mount  the  steps,  enter  the  grand  old  hall,  and  almost 
immediately  separate  to  make  some  slight  preparation  for  our  late 
dinner. 


BEHIND  THE  ARRAS.  231 


CHAPTER  V. 

"And  will  ye  pardon  then  (replied  the  youth) 
Your  Waldegrave's  feigned  name  and  raise  attire  ? 
I  durst  not  in  the  neighborhood,  in  truth, 
The  very  fortunes  of  your  house  inquire; 
Lest  one  that  knew  me  might  some  tidings  dire 
Impart." 

—  "Gertrude  of  Wyoming." 

N  the  west  drawing-room  at  Bratton  Hall  we  are  enjoying  a 
quiet  hour  after  the  fatigue  and  wonder  of  the  day.  The  gen- 
tlemen having  lingered  but  a  short  time  over  their  wine  and 
cigars  from  kind  consideration  for  our  desire  to  kave  Guy 
amongst  us,  Sir  Griffith  now  sits  there  by  the  centre- table  making 
out  a  list  of  guests  for  the  grand  dinner  to  be  given  next  week  in 
honor  of  his  son's  return,  and  discussing  with  Jolliffe  Tufnell  the 
advisability  of  omitting  this  one  as  "stupid"  and  asking  that  one 
as  "  good  company,"  in  order  that  there  may  be  an  element  of  hi- 
larity, yet  none  be  left  out  who  may  resent  the  indignity.  Poor 
man!  he  finds  the  task  a  Herculean  labor,  and  bites  his  pencil  in 
disturbance  of  mind,  while  Tufnell  vainly  tries  to  lessen  the  diffi- 
culty by  proposing  all  sort  of  impossible  people.  With  the  excep- 
tion of  Miss  Courtenay,  who  sits  apart-  listlessly  turning  over  the 
leaves  of  a  book  to  show  her  utter  want  of  interest  in  the  conversa- 
tion, the  rest  of  us  form  a  group  with  Guy  the  centre  of  attraction. 
He  sits  by  his  mother  who  reclines  upon  a  sofa;  Florence  in  silence 
plies  her  crochet  needle,  the  only  industrious  one  of  us  all,  except 
as  regards  the  asking  of  questions:  and  we  demand  from  Guy  a 
more  satisfactory  account  of  his  life  and  adventures  than  we  were 
able  to  glean  from  his  recital  at  the  trial  to-day. 

"  You  must  tell  us  all  about  your  life  in  America/'  says  Lady  Eger- 
ton;  "and  how  you  lived  find  made  your  way  in  the  world." 

"I  will,"  Guy  answers;  "  but  I'm  afraid  you'll  be  disappointed  to 
find  my  story  very  commonplace  after  the  one  great  event  of  my 
life.  You  know  already  how  Silliman  got  me  the  place  on  the  ship,  as 
cabin-boy.  The  vessel  carried  one  passenger,  an  elderly  American 
gentleman  named  Clinton,  who  was  making  the  return  voyage  to 
New  York  by  long  sea  for  the  benefit  of  his  health.  In  the  position 
I  occupied  I  was  enabled  to  render  him  some  trifling  services  which 
pleased  him,  and  for  want  of  better  employment  he  would  talk  to 
me,  and  ask  me  questions,  and  we  grew  to  be  great  friends.  He 
called  me  a  very  gentlemanlike  little  cabin-boy  and  asked  many 
questions  about  myself.  My  mind  revolted  at  the  thought  of  tell- 


232  BEHIND   THE  AREAS. 

ing  him  untruths,  so  I  said  to  him  frankly  that  I  could  answer  no 
questions,  that  all  I  was  at  liberty  to  tell  him  was,  that  I  had  been 
sent  away  from  home  by  a  kind  friend  who  had  found  me  my  situa- 
tion on  board,  and  that  I  was  going  to  seek  my  fortune  in  America." 

"Did  you  really  think  you  would  be  hanged?"  interrupts  Lady 
Egerton. 

"  I  did,  mother  mine;  I  was  only  eleven,  remember,  and  not  very 
learned  in  the  law.  Mr.  Clinton  did  not  at  first  seem  quite  pleased 
at  my  reticence,  but  he  afterwards  told  me  he  had  taken  a  strange 
fancy  to  me,  and  when  we  were  approaching  New  York  he  asked  me 
if  I  would  like  to  be  an  errand-boy  in  his  office.  I  was  only  too  de- 
lighted, as  you  may  imagine,  and  jumped  at  his  kind  offer/' 

"  Where  did  you  find  the  name  you  adopted?"  asks  Lady  Amten- 
hurst. 

"  Alva  Ingoldsby?  I  found  it  in  the  London  directory,"  Guy  an- 
swers, laughing.  "  I  came  across  it  when  I  was  a  very  small  boy 
and  it  hit  my  fancy,  so  when  I  was  at  a  loss  for  a  name  it  was  the 
first  I  thought  of,  and  I  adopted  it." 

There  is  a  general  laugh  at  this,  and  Sir  Griffith  calls  out: 

"  Telling  them  where  you  got  your  name,  Guy?  Take  care  how 
you  spread  the  report,  or  you  may  have  a  law  suit  on  your  hands 
with  a  thousand  pounds  damages.  I  say,  Tufnell,  old  Meredith 
won't  do,"  referring  to  his  list;  "  deaf  as  a  post." 

Tufnell's  answer  is  unheard,  as  Guy  continues: 

*'  Mr.  Clinton  was  a  lawyer,  and  I  was  soon  installed  in  his  office 
in  New  York.  When  he  had  proved  my  trustworthiness,  and  I  had 
grown  old  enough,  he  advanced  me  to  the  position  of  clerk.  My 
life  was  very  happy,  for  he  treated  me  as  a  son.  He  had  no  chil- 
dren— was  an  old  bachelor,  in  fact,  and  as  I  showed  a  taste  for  law 
as  I  grew  older,  he  allowed  me  a  good  deal  of  time  to  study,  advis- 
ing me  to  adopt  the  bar  as  a  profession." 

"  But  why  did  you  never  write  home  in  all  this  time?"  I  inquire. 

"I  did.  I  wrote  to  my  father,  telling  him  everything,  and  in- 
closed my  letter  to  Silliman  asking  him  to  give  it  to  him.  I  might 
have  known,  of  course,  if  I  hadn't  been  so  young,  and  had  reflected 
a  moment,  that  he  would  never  deliver  it,  fearing  it  might  im- 
plicate him  in  some  way  with  my  escape.  But  the  worst  of  it  was 
the  fellow  deceived  me  by  writing  me  back  word  that  my  father  was 
incensed  at  me  beyond  any  hope  of  forgiveness;  that  he  had  now  a 
daughter  in  place  of  me  whom  he  disowned,  and  fully  believed  to 
be  guilty;  and  he  advised  me  if  I  wished  to  keep  my  neck  out  of  a 
halter,  to  keep  quiet,  and  by  no  means  to  tell  my  secret  to  anyone." 

"  The  wretch!"  cries  Lady  Egerton. 


BEHIND   THE  AREAS.  233 

"  I  never  for  a  moment  suspected  then  that  Silliman  was  deceiv- 
ing me,  and  kept  silent  for  a  year.  Then  I  determined  to  write  to 
my  father  direct,  but  in  order  not  to  implicate  Silliman,  I  avoided 
all  mention  of  his  name,  merely  saying  that  a  friend  had  assisted 
me  in  getting  away.  But  fate  seemed  against  me.  This  letter  mis- 
carried, for  my  father  never  received  it,  as  I  afterwards  found,  and 
I  then  thought  that  his  silence  meant  everything  that  Silliman  had 
said,  beyond  a  doubt,  and  I  abandoned  all  hope  of  a  reconciliation/5 

"But  did  you  not  very  soon  discover  that,  even  if  guilty,  you 
were  too  young  to  be  hanged?"  asks  Lord  Amtenhurst.  "  From 
your  law  reading,  I  mean." 

"I  am  not  so  sure  as  to  that,  your  lordship/'  Guy  answers,  with 
a  smile.  "I  remember  coming  across  some  cases  in  Blackstone 
one  day  where  children  under  twelve  were  executed  for  murder,  and 
that  rather  gave  me  a  cold  chill.  As  you  may  imagine,  I  read  every- 
thing that  bore  upon  the  subject  with  immense  interest,  and  I  found 
that  the  law  conclusively  presumes  children  under  seven  to  be  in- 
capable of  crime,  but  between  that  age  and  fourteen  they  are  only 
prima  facie  incapable,  and  evidence  will  be  received  to  show  a  dis- 
cretion to  discern  between  good  and  evil.  Thus  in  one  of  the  cases 
I  have  mentioned,  a  boy  of  ten  hid  himself  after  the  murder — my 
case,  you  see — and  that  was  deemed  to  show  a  guilty  knowledge, 
and  he  was  hanged." 

"That  is  the  case  of  Rex  v.  Hodges,"  says  Mr.  Strutt,  grasping 
eagerly  at  this  semblance  of  "  shop"  in  the  conversation,  to  break 
his  long  silence.  "  It's  an  extreme  case,  a  very  extreme  case;  and 
Blackstone  only  cites  it  to  show  to  what  lengths  courts  will  some- 
times go.  If  I  didn't  know  that  the  case  was  reported  in  Plowden 
a  century  before  his  time,  I  would  think  it  had  been  tried  before 
Jefferies,  from  its  barbarity." 

'  Good  gracious  me !"  cried  Miss  Courtenay  from  her  distant  seat, 
stopping  the  leaf- turning  process  a  moment  to  smother  a  yawn, 
"Haven't  you  people  had  enough  of  law  and  murders  and  hang- 
ings to-day,  without  wanting  a  repetition  ?" 

"  As  I  grew  older,  I  began  to  suspect  Silliman,"  Guy  continued, 
going  back  to  his  story  and  silencing  Strutt,  who,  with  a  deprecat- 
ing glance  at  Miss  Courtenay  for  her  cruel  remonstrance,  returns  to 
the  twirling  of  his  thumbs  over  one  another,  as  he  silently  contem- 
plates the  fire.  "  I  began  to  suspect  his  motives  in  aiding  my 
escape,  and  as  I  came  to  weigh  all  the  circumstances  of  his  connec- 
tion with  the  affair,  as  my  mind  matured  and  was  aided  by  the  books 
I  read,  I  had  no  doubt  that  he  was  the  real  murderer.  How  I 
longed  to  return  and  confront  him  with  the  accusation!  but  I  had 


234  BEHIND  THE  AREAS. 

not  the  means.  My  kind  friend,  Mr.  Clinton,  who  was  very  well  off, 
at  first  gave  me  a  home  and  clothed  and  fed  me  for  my  services. 
After  a  year  or  two  he  paid  me  a  small  salary,  increasing  it  each 
year;  and  I  saved  my  money  with  the  intention  of  coming  to  Eng- 
land and  asserting  my  innocence.  Unfortunately  I  was  tempted  to 
speculate  —  everybody  speculates  in  America  —  hoping  to  double 
my  small  fund,  I  risked  my  savings  upon  some  fluctuating  bubble 
of  "Wall  street,  and,  as  a  matter  of  course,  lost  every  penny.  My 
patron,  on  the  contrary,  by  investing  largely  in  California  mining 
stocks,  made  a  fabulous  fortune,  as  did  also  his  only  brother." 

"  Why  didn't  you  tell  your  patron  your  secret  ?"  I  ask,  "  and  bor- 
row money  from  him  to  take  you  home?" 

"Why  do  you  always  anticipate  my  actions?"  Guy  replies, 
laughing:  "I  told  him  the  whole  story.  He  said  at  once  that  Sil- 
liman  was  the  guilty  party,  and  the  only  way  to  clear  myself  was 
by  his  conviction.  It  would  never  do,  he  said,  for  me  to  accuse 
him  openly,  till  I  had  conclusive  proof  of  his  guilt;  and  his  ad- 
vice was,  for  me  to  go  home  quietly,  under  an  assumed  name, 
and  see  what  evidence  could  be  got  together  against  him;  for  if 
I  were  at  once  to  acknowledge  myself,  he  would  take  alarm  and 
get  beyond  the  reach  of  justice.  We  little  knew  he  had  left  Eng- 
land and  was  in  America,  but  where,  thanks  to  the  treaty  of  ex- 
tradition, be  was  still  within  reach.  My  good  friend  furnished  me 
with  all  the  money  I  needed,  and  I  was  to  have  sailed  in  the 
next  Cunard  steamer  for  Liverpool;  but  he  was  taken  suddenly  ill, 
and  I  could  not  leave  him.  His  illness  was  a  long  and  serious  one, 
and  it  left  him  a  weak,  aged  man,  liable  to  go  off  at  any  moment. 
One  day  he  called  me  to  him  and  said :  '  Do  you  know  that  you  have 
grown  into  my  heart,  boy  ?  A  son  could  not  be  more  dear  to  me. 
You  are  very  young,  and  have  many  years  before  you.  I  am  going 
fast.  Will  you  not  delay  a  little  longer  vindicating  yourself,  and 
remain  with  me  the  short  time  I  have  to  live  ? '  I  could  not  refuse : 
I  loved  the  old  man  who  had  done  so  much  for  me.  I  postponed 
my  return  and  stayed  with  him,  doing  all  I  could  to  make  his  last 
days  happy.  I  think  I  succeeded,  and  it  gives  me  pleasure  to  re- 
member his  satisfaction  in  having  me  near  him.  Three  years  and  a 
half  ago  he  died,  and  I  then  learned  for  the  first  time  that  I  was 
his  heir.  He  had  added  one  more  to  the  innumerable  benefits  he 
had  heaped  upon  me;  and  I  could  accept  his  bounty  without  com- 
punction, for  his  only  relatives,  a  brother  and  a  niece,  were  as 
wealthy  as  himself.  Do  you  know,  I  felt  his  loss  as  keenly  as  though 
he  had  been  a  blood  relation."  Guy  pauses,  and  the  hiatus  is  filled 
up  by  Sir  Griffith: 


BEHIND   THE  ARRAS.  235 

"Must  ask  such  a  prominent  man?  But  think  what  it  entails! 
A  sour  old  maid  of  a  daughter,  a  grumpy  sister-in-law,  and  a  wife 
like  a  —  like  — " 

"  Beer-vat,"  suggests  Tufnell. 

"  A  wife  like  a  beer-vat,"  repeats  Sir  Griffith.  "  « I  thank  thee, 
Jew,  for  teaching  me  that  word/  '  So  much  for  Buckingham! '  "  and 
he  draws  the  pencil  through  the  inelegible  name. 

Glancing  with  a  smile  over  his  shoulder  at  his  father,  Guy  goes 
on: — 

"  When  all  my  affairs  were  settled  up,  I  bid  good-by  to  old  friends, 
James  Clinton  and  his  daughter  Florence  among  the  oldest  and 
best,  sailed  for  England — '  The  home  of  my  boyhood,  my  own  native 
land! '  and  here  I  am — cleared  and  reinstated." 

"  Florence — Florence  Clinton — where  have  I  heard  that  name?" 
Miss  Courtenay  questions  herself  in  an  undertone,  as  she  closes 
her  book,  and  looks  back  dreamily  into  illimitable  space.  "  Oh,  Mr. 
Egerton  I"  she  exclaims,  starting  up  and  coming  forward  with  a 
suddenly-acquired  interest  in  her  tone — an  interest  I  am  uncharita- 
ble enough  to  believe  to  be  coexistent  with  her  knowledge  of  the 
manner  of  disposition  of  Mr.  Clinton's  fabulous  fortune. 

"Oh,  Mr.  Egerton!  Don't  you  remember  that  you  arrived  in 
Home  the  day  before  we  left;  that  terribly  stormy  clay  ?  We  met 
you  in  the  evening,  and  you  said  that  some  friends  of  yours  were 
staying  at  the  hotel,  whom  you  had  come  to  see  all  the  way  from 
England.  They  were  the  same  people  whom  you  met  in  America, 
were  they  not  ?  Their  name  was  Clinton." 

"  Yes.  They  were  the  same,"  Guy  answered.  "  James  Clinton, 
and  his  daughter  Florence." 

"  And  do  you  know  what  has  become  of  them  ?  I  felt  so  terribly 
for  the  poor,  dear  girl.  I  hope  her  poor  father  has  recovered^  he 
was  so  very  ill,  you  remember." 

"He  died  there— in  Rome— a  few  days  after  you  left." 

"  And  Florence,  the  poor  child,"  with  a  look  of  breathless  agon- 
ized interest,  "left  all  alone  !" 

"  Not  quite  alone,"  Guy  says  quietly.  "  Some  American  friends, 
who  chanced  to  be  passing  through  Home  on  their  way  home,  took 
charge  of  her,  and  she  returned  to  New  York  with  them." 

Miss  Courtenay,  with  a  host  of  reserve  questions,  makes  a  mistake 
in  pausing  to  wipe  away  a  tear;  before  she  can  ask  another,  Lady 
Egerton,  who  has  been  waiting  for  an  opportunity  to  speak,  says: 

"  Do  you  remember,  Guy,  how  slyly  your  father  introduced  you 
to  me  as  a  young  lawyer  from  America?  The  wretch  dared  to  in- 
troduce my  own  son  to  me  as  a  stranger  !" 


236  BEHIND   THE  ARRAS. 

"  'Excellent  wretch,'  madame,"  calls  out  Sir  Griffith.  "  Omit  not 
the  all-important  prefix." 

"  Did  you  tell  Sir  Griffith  everything  at  once?"  I  ask  Guy. 

"  Yes.  And  he  received  me  as  the  good  father  that  he  is.  He  also, 
as  you  heard  at  the  trial  to-day,  had  had  his  suspicions  of  Silliman 
awakened  by  Mr.  Tufnell,  who,  at  the  time,  was  busily  employed  in 
hunting  up  witnesses,  and  seeking  a  clue  to  the  whereabouts  of  Silli- 
man, of  whom  they  had  lost  track.  I  had  brought,  among  others, 
a  letter  of  introduction  from  Mr.  Clinton  to  a  friend  of  his,  a  Mr. 
Parkins,  a  London  solicitor.  This  Mr.  Parkins  was  Lord  Amten- 
hurst's  lawyer,  and — strange  coincidence — had  been  engaged  in 
tracing  this  very  Silliman  for  his  lordship,  though  from  other  mo- 
tives than  ours.  From  him  we  learned  four  months  ago,  that  Silli- 
man was  in  California.  Mr.  Tufnell's  solicitors  at  once  wrote  out 
to  the  police  authorities  at  San  Francisco,  and  ascertained  that  he 
was  still  there,  and  from  the  description,  was  the  identical  man  we 
were  after.  We  immediately  had  proceedings  taken  under  the  ex- 
tradition treaty;  or — the  rest  you  know." 

"  When  you  found  that  Silliman  was  no  longer  in  England,"  I 
remark,  "  and  had  got  together  such  a  strong  case  against  him, 
why  on  earth  didn't  you  come  forward  at  once  and  acknowledge 
yourself  to  the  world,  instead  of  keeping  us  so  much  longer  in 
ignorance?" 

"You  must  blame  Sir  Griffith  for  that,"  Guy  answers,  with  a 
sly  look  over  at  his  father.  "  I  was  only  too  anxious  to  throw  off 
my  disguise,  but  he  wanted  to  give  you  all  a  great  surprise,  in  regu- 
lar dramatic  fashion." 

"You  might  at  least  have  trusted  your  own  mother,"  Lady  Eger- 
ton  says,  in  a  tone  of  reproach. 

"Yes;  but  not  his  own  mother's  tongue,"  shouts  Sir  Griffith 
across  the  room — 

"  '  Trust  not  a  woman,  not  e'en  a  mother, 

With  aught  in  your  heart  you  hold  secret. 
Men,  if  you  must  trust,  trust  one  another, 
And  the  act  you  will  never  regret.'" 

"Heretic!"  laughs  Lady  Amtenhurst.  "Don't  you  think  a 
mother's  anxiety  for  the  welfare  of  her  child —  " 

"  Would  have  spoiled  everything  ?"  interrupts  Sir  Griffith.  "  Of 
course  it  would.  A  woman's  love  rules  her  judgment;  and  if  that 
wife  of  mine  had  chanced  to  think  she  saw  a  quicker  way  out  of  our 
snarl,  woe  to  our  schemes.  I'll  invite  young  Caryll,  Tufnell,  in- 
stead of  that  nonentity  Maitland,"  and  he  becomes  once  more  ab- 
sorbed in  his  list. 


BEHIND   THE  ARRAS.  237 

There  is  a  pause  in  the  conversation,  and  Guy,  turning  to  Flor- 
ence, asks  her: 

"  Why  so  silent,  Lady  Florence?" 

Without  raising  her  eyes  from  her  work,  she  answers : 

"  My  attention  has  been  occupied  by  my  work — seven,  eight," 
counting  her  stitches. 

"  That  remark  is  not  very  complimentary  to  Mr.  Egerton, 
Florence,"  says  Miss  Courtenay,  looming  up  again  in  full  force. 
1 '  He  has  been  telling  us  of  his  life  in  America." 

"Yes?  Three,  four." 

"  Oh,  you  are  enough  to  provoke  a  saint!  You're  as  bad  as  a 
child  learning  the  piano,  with  your  '  one,  two,  three,  four-— one,  two, 
three,  four/  Come,  Mr.  Egerton,"  putting  her  arm  through  his, 
"  let  us  leave  this  tiresome  creature  to  her  loops  and  chains.  Come 
and  talk  to  me.  You'll  find  me  an  appreciative  listener.  I  want 
you  to  tell  me  what  sort  of  girls  the  American  girls  are,  and  if  they 
are  not  shocking  flirts,"  and  she  leads  Guy  away,  an  unwilling 
victim,  his  face  cannot  conceal,  to  a  sofa  in  a  distant  bay  window. 
As  they  move  away,  Guy  glances  round  at  Florence,  and  from  her 
eyes  flashes  back  at  him  a  look  strangely  scornful.  The  reason  for 
it  he  appears  as  much  at  a  loss  to  understand  as  am  I. 

"What  is  the  matter  with  you,  child?"  asks  Lady  Egerton. 
"You  and  Guy  seem  to  be  far  less  friends  than  of  old,  and  you 
should  be  now  like  brother  and  sister.  You  were  once  my  daughter, 
he  is  now  my  son." 

Florence  does  not  answer,  but  bends  over  her  work. 

I  feel  inclined  for  the  moment  to  quote  Betsy  Trotwood,  and 

exclaim : 

"Blind,  blind,  blind!" 


CHAPTER  VI. 

Last  scene  of  all, 
That  ends  this  strange  eventful  history. 

—  As  You  Like  It:  Act  II,  Scene  7. 

»IS  Florence  Courtenay's  last  day  at  Bratton  Hall.  To-mor- 
row, the  only  tie  which  still  seems  to  bind  her  to  us— her 
presence  at  her  old  home— will  be  broken,  and  after  a  brief 
?  fortnight's  reunion,  she  is  to  leave  us  for  good  and  all.  She 
and  Guy  are  still  at  odds,  obstinately,  inexplicably,  and  all  hope 
seems  over  of  the  wedding  which  I  had  thought  would  have  pre- 
vented, for  some  time,  if  not  for  aye,  the  settling  back  of  the  old 


238  BEHIND   THE  ARRAS. 

Hall  into  its  wonted  state  of  humdrum  quietude.  Mr.  Strutt  left 
us  the  day  after  the  trial  to  rescue  his  clients  from  the  wizened 
clutches  of  his  clerk  Wiggins*.  Mr.  Tufnell,  too,  has  returned  to 
his  ancestral  halls,  despite  our  efforts  to  detain  him  longer;  but  we 
see  him  every  day,  and  this  morning  he  is  to  join  a  riding  party  we 
have  planned  to  some  Druidical  ruins  recently  unearthed  by  some 
wandering  members  of  the  archaeological  society,  in  our  neighbor- 
hood. 

The  appointed  hour  for  starting  has  come  and  gone  ten  minutes 
ago,  and  we  stand  on  the  terrace  awaiting  the  arrival  of,  as  Guy  re- 
marks—" the  late  Mr.  Tufnell." 

"Oh,  Tufnell,  Tufnell!  Wherefore  art  thou  Tufnell?"  says  Sir 
Griffith,  in  a  mock  sentimental  tone.  "  I  told  him  we  should  start 
at  eleven.  I  suppose  we  shall  only  have  to  give  him  another  ten 
minutes'  grace,"  and  he  walks  off  with  Lord  Amtenhurst  to  the 
horses  which  stand,  impatiently  pawing  the  gravel,  under  the  shade 
of  a  large  oak. 

"How  I  detest  people  who  always  require  grace,"  cries  Miss 
Courtenay,  pettishly,  as  habited  and  hatted  she  stands  drawing  on 
her  riding-gloves.  "Why  on  earth  can't  people  be  punctual?  / 
make  it  a  rule  always  to  b6  so." 

"  Perhaps.he  misunderstood,  and  will  join  us  at  the  ruins,  instead 
of  here,"  says  Lady  Amtenhurst. 

"I  hardly  think  that  possible,"  remarks  Lady  Egerton,  "for  I 
heard  Sir  Griffith  impressing  it  upon  him  that  we  were  to  leave  here 
together." 

At  this  moment  Guy,  who  has  been  having  a  loak — as  is  his  cus- 
tom— at  the  saddle-girths  of  his  own  horse,  and  at  those  of  one  of 
the  side-saddles  as  well,  comes  leisurely  back,  just  in  time  to  pick 
up  Miss  Courtenay's  whip,  which,  by-the-bye,  she  seems  to  have 
managed  to  drop  at  a  very  opportune  moment. 

"  You  must  be  my  cavalier  to-day,  Mr.  Egerton,"  she  says,  as  he 
hands  the  whip  to  her.  "  Sir  Griffith  I'm  afraid  of;  Mr.  Tufnell's 
afraid  of  me,  at  least  he  acts  as  though  he  were — at  all  events  he's 
not  here;  and  riding  with  one's  uncle  is  just  the  merest  trifle  too 
slow  for  even  me;  so,  recollect,  you  belong  to  me  to-day." 

Good  breeding  forbids  the  direct  refusal  I  know  must  be  hover- 
ing on  his  lips. 

"  I  feel  highly  flattered,  Miss  Courtenay,  especially  as  from  your 
own  confession,  your  choice  appears  to  partake  much  of  the  quality 
of  Hobson's;  but  I'm  afraid  I'm  half  engaged  already/'  and  he 
glances  toward  the  house  from  which  Florence  has  not  yet  come 
forth,  with  an  evident  desire  in  his  eye  to  move  on. 


BEHIND   THE  ARRAS.  239 

"Oh,  my  cousin  don't  want  you;"  Edith  cries,  laughingly. 
"  She's  such  a  queer,  rum  sort  of  a  girl,  as  you  men  say;  goes  about 
with  the  old  fogies,  and  avoids  nice  people  like  us — you  and  me. 
Button  this,  please,"  and  she  holds  up  her  gloved  hand  to  him. 
There  are  two  things  which  some  girls  always  seem  to  want:  a 
glass  of  water,  and  to  have  their  gloves  buttoned,  and  I  wonder  to 
myself,  as  Guy,  with  flushed  face,  bends  over  the  glove,  seeming  for 
the  moment  to  find  the  button-hole  too  small  or  the  button  the  re- 
verse, if  the  fact  has  ever  come  under  his  observation. 

"  I'll  get  you  out  a  hairpin,  in  a  second/'  Miss  Courtenay  adds, 
with  the  very  slightest  upward  movement  of  her  free  hand.  "No? 
Oh,  thanks,  you  have  managed  it  at  last.  Why  there's  Florence, 
now,  and  without  her  habit." 

Guy  walks  away,  evidently  annoyed  at  being  caught  at  the  glove- 
buttoning  operation,  and  goes  down  the  steps  in  quest  of  a  flower 
for  his  button-hole,  as  he  hurridly  informs  Miss  Courtenay. 

"Where's  your  habit,  dear?"  Lady  Amtenhurst  asks,  as  Florence 
joins  us. 

"  I've  changed  my  mind;  that  is,  I've  determined,  after  a  slight 
struggle,  to  sacrifice  pleasure  upon  the  altar  of  duty,"  Florence  an- 
swers with  a  constrained  smile.  "If  I  go  with  you,  Lady  Eger- 
ton's  tidy  will  not  be  finished  before  we  leave  to-morrow;  if  I  stay, 
it  will  be  done  to-night,  and  I  shall  have  the  pleasure  of  pinning  it, 
myself,  upon  her  chair.  So  you  see  that  self  has  a  little,  the  least 
bit  to  do  with  it." 

"What  nonsense,  child!"  exclaims  Lady  Egerton.  "You  can 
take  it  home  with  you,  and  send  it  to  me  when  its  done." 

"  Or  I'll  help  you  with  the  finishing  touches  this  afternoon  when 
we  return,"  suggests  her  mother.  "  Will  not  that  do  ?" 

"  Thank  you  mamma,  dear,  but  I  would  really  prefer  doing  it  all 
myself." 

"Oh,  let  the  little  oddity  have  her  own  way,  if  she  will,"  snaps  out 
Edith  Courtenay.  "  She'll  only  be  a  spoil  sport,  with  her  long  face, 
if  she  comes.  She  enjoys  solitude,  and  I  sometimes  think  she's 
trying  to  get  up  a  character  for  eccentricity.  Next  to  sick  people, 
odd  ones  are  so  interesting,  you  know." 

Drawing  Florence  aside,  I  look  into  her  face  and  say: 

"  Child,  it's  not  the  tidy;  it's  Guy." 

Wistfully  returning  my  gaze,  she  replies: 

"Yes,  Julia.  He  must  not  have  a  chance  of  speaking  to  me 
alone.  I  shall  be  happier,  safer,  here  by  myself,  than  with  him. 
Don't  you  urge  me  to  go,"  and  to  avoid  further  persuasion,  she 
turns  to  meet  her  father  who  is  approaching  with  Sir  Griffith. 


240  BEHIND   THE  AREAS. 

"Time's  up!"  shouts  the  baronet.  "To  horse!  to  horse!  'and 
witch  the  world  with  noble  horsemanship.'" 

The  horses  are  led  forward,  but  strange  to  say,  I  seem  to  have 
lost  all  interest  in  the  excursion;  so,  when  Lady  Amtenhurst  and 
Lady  Egertoarhave  entered  their  phseton,  and  the  Earl  comes  for- 
ward to  put  me  on  my  horse,  I  propose  waiting  for  Mr.  Tufnell  and 
riding  after  them  with  him  when  he  arrives.  There  is  some  demur 
to  this  proposition  at  first,  but  as  I  will  be  no  great  loss  to  the  party, 
it  is  at  last  decided  that  I  shall  remain,  and  follow  them  in  an  hour 
with  Mr.  Tufnell,  if  he  comes,  but  if  he  fails,  alone,  as  I  know  the 
road  so  well. 

Guy,  who  has  been  mounting  Edith  Courtenay,  comes  forward. 

"It  is  unfortunate  that  our  small  party  should  be  lessened  by 
three.  How  can  you  be  so  cruel,  Lady  Florence,  when  you  must 
know  that  each  one  taken  from  our  number  decreases  our  chances 
of  enjoyment?  " 

"You  will  find  my  cousin  Edith  a  host  in  herself,  I  haven't  a 
doubt,"  she  replies  coldly,  and  turns  away  to  rub  the  nose  of  her 
father's  horse. 

"Perhaps  our  good  friend  Tufnell  is  even  now  impersonating 
James's  (  solitary  horseman,'  and  groping  his  way  among  the  ruins 
in  search  of  us,"  remarks  the  Earl. 

"  In  which  case  the  sooner  we  go  to  his  relief  the  better  for  him," 
says  Sir  Griffith,  shaking  his  bridle-rein  and  leading  the  way  down 
the  avenue.  The  Earl,  Edith,  and  Guy,  follow  at  a  brisk  canter, 
Lady  Egerton's  ponies  bringing  up  the  rear,  and  Florence  and  I  are 
left  alone  upon  the  terrace.  When  they  are  quite  out  of  sight  and 
hearing,  I  turn  to  her  as  she  stands  gazing  after  them,  with  her 
fingers  tightly  laced. 

"Why  do  you  wish  to  avoid  Guy,  Florence?  Why  do  you  treat 
him  so  coldly,  and  snub  him  so  persistently  ?" 

She  flushes,  and  answers  hotly: 

"  Because  he  deserves  it.  Don't  tease  me  with  questions,  Julia, 
for  I  cannot  answer  them.  You  may  be  assured  of  one  thing,  I 
never  act  without  a  reason." 

Away  she  trips  up  the  broad  stone  steps  into  the  house,  and  on 
up  the  stairs.  I  turn  to  follow  her,  but  as  I  do  so,  the  sound  of  a 
horse's  hoofs  on  the  gravel  reaches  my  ear.  Thinking  it  is  one  of 
the  party  returning,  I  look  back  and  see  Jolliffe  Tufnell  riding  up 
the  avenue  at  a  stretching  gallop. 

"Late,  by  Jove!"  he  exclaims  as  he  draws  up  at  the  foot  of  the 
steps,  and  looks  around.  "Just  my  luck— I  knew  it,"  and  out 
comes  the  red  silk  pocket-handkerchief  to  wipe  his  streaming  face. 


BEHIND  THE  ARRAS.  241 

"Hello!';  he  shouts  suddenly,  springing  off  his  horse,  and,  throw- 
ing the  rein  to  one  of  the  grooms,  he  strides  over  to  me.  "  Miss  Lif- 
ford— as  I  live!  Why,  I  thought  they  had  gone?" 

"  So  they  have,"  I  answer,  quietly.  "  I  don't  see  how  you  could 
have  avoided  meeting  them." 

"I  took  a  short  cut  across  the  fields,  is  the  reason,  I  suppose. 
But  how  comes  it  you  are  not  with  them  ?" 

"  I  waited  for  you— to  show  you  the  way,"  I  say,  laughing.  "  Just 
as  if  you  didn't  know  every  inch  of  the  roads  for  miles  around." 

"  Did  I  know  this  particular  road  never  so  well,  I  should  run  a 
greater  chance  of  losing  my  way  with  Miss  Lifford  by  my  side,  than 
were  I  alone,"  and  a  grin — nay  more — a  diabolical  grin  overspreads 
his  features. 

"  Will  you  take  the  chances?     Shall  I  order  my  horse?" 

"Not  just  yet  at  all  events.  To  tell  you  the  truth,  Miss  Lifford,  I 
am  not  very  keen  about  investigating  the  ancient  relics.  I  confess  my- 
self utterly  indifferent  as  to  what  precise  style  or  order  of  architecture 
the  Druids  regarded  as  the  correct  thing.  I  never  did  have  a  fancy 
for  poking  about  ruins,  and  it's  always  been  a  sort  of  puzzle  to  me 
how  any  one  could.  At  any  rate  we  can  go  another  day.  So,  with 
your  kind  permission,  instead  of  your  ordering  your  horse  I  will  tell 
Robert  to  take  'Bluebeard'  to  the  stable.  The  fact  is,  Miss  Lif- 
ford," he  continues,  after  giving  directions  to  the  groom  about 
"sponging  'Bluebeard's'  mouth  out,  and  loosening  the  girths;" 
"  I've  been  wanting  to  have  a  bit  of  confidential  talk  with  you  for 
some  time  past,  and,"  with  another  grin  of  evident  pleasure,  "I'm 
uncommonly  glad  of  this  opportunity.  Come,  let  us  sit  down  here," 
dusting  a  stone  seat  near  the  balustrade  with  his  pocket-handker- 
chief. "I've  been  looking  for  this,  and  hoping  for  it  a  long  time," 
he  begins,  with  another  grin,  as  we  seat  ourselves.  Then  there  is 
a  pause,  while  he  looks  straight  before  him,  and  mops  his  face. 
Then  he  takes  off  his  hat,  and  turning  to  me,  puts  both  hands  on 
his  knees  and  says  abruptly:  "  Miss  Lifford,  the  fact  is — I'm  lonely 
—I  want  a  wife."  He  stares  at  me  through  his  spectacles,  and  my 
thoughts  fly  to  Florence.  He  loves  her,  and  wants  my  assistance, 
think  I.  He  goes  on:  "Dunraven  was  a  very  dear  friend  of  mine. 
I  don't  think  it  would  be  his  wish  that  you  should  live  a  lonely  life." 

Me?  Oh,  I  suppose  he  wants  me  to  come  and  live  with  them 
after  the  wedding— a  bait  to  catch  my  good  will,  ah,  ha,  Mr.  Tuf- 
nell!  You  seem  wonderfully  sure  of  success,  upon  my  word. 

"  We  are  too  old  for  romantic  ideas,  you  and  I;  and  yet,  I'd  not 
make  half  a  bad  husband.     I'm  sure  you'd  make  a  capital  wife." 
16 


242  BEHIND  THE  ARRAS. 

Me,  again?  Puzzled,  I  sit  silent,  and  as  the  truth  begins  to 
faintly  dawn  upon  me,  lie  says  in  a  strangely  husky  voice: 

'*  Will  you  marry  me,  Miss  Lifford — Julia,  I  mean?" 

I  am  amazed,  confused;  I  can't  speak.  And  yet,  now  that  it  has 
come,  it  does  not  seem  so  strange — so  unexpected.  What  shall  I 
say  ?  I  really  believe  I  like  the  man  more  than  I  thought,  with  all 
his  odd  ways.  He  waits  patiently  for  my  answer,  seeming  quite 
confident  as  to  what  it  will  be.  ,  That  nettles  me;  but  when  he 
gently  takes  my  hand  the  feeling  of  irritation  quickly  melts  away, 
and  I  let  him  keep  it.  At  last  he  murmurs  something  about  "si- 
lence" and  "  consent/'  I  blush  like  a  girl,  and  the  impudent  creat- 
ure takes  advantage  of  my  confusion  and — and — kisses  me. 

As  I  sit  here  in  the  soft  summer  air,  in  this  familiar  spot,  with  an 
accepted  lover  by  my  side — the  place  which  once  was  Louis  Dun- 
raven's — and  gaze  off  over  the  old  gray  balustrade  of  the  terrace 
into  the  long  and  beautiful  vistas  of  park  and  woodland  extending  as 
far  as  the  eye  can  reach,  I  can  imagine  that  the  dead  past  has  come 
back  again — that  the  days  of  my  girlhood  are  returned. 

As  Louis'  friend,  the  man  beside  me  is  more  to  me  than  any  other 
man  can  ever  be.  I  tell  him  so,  and  he  is  delighted. 

Again  the  tramp  of  horses'  feet  sound  on  the  gravel  below,  and  a 
horseman  appears  through  the  trees  coming  slowly  up  the  avenue. 

"By  Jove!  It's  Egerton — Guy,  I  mean,"  Jolliffe  says,  jumping 
up. 

"  Can  anything  have  happened?"  I  ask,  anxiously. 

"  Nothing  worse  than  that  his  horse  is  dead  lame,  my  dear. 
Must  have  picked  up  a  nail  or  something.  What  awfully  hard  lines 
on  the  poor  fellow!  to  have  to  leave  her  that  way." 

My  mind  at  rest  as  to  Guy's  return,  which  J,  who  know  the  situa- 
tion, do  not  regard  as  such  "awfully  hard  lines"  on  the  poor  fellow, 
and  without  waiting  to  enlighten  my  companion  as  to  the  true  state 
of  affairs,  I  beat  a  hasty  retreat  into  the  house  before  Guy  can  see 
me,  and  take  refuge  in  Lady  Egerton's  boudoir.  Instinctively  I 
move  towards  a  mirror  and  survey  my  reflected  face  and  form,  it 
must  be  confessed,  with  something  of  complacency.  I  am  not  so 
very  old,  only  six-and-thirty ,  and  the  face  I  see  there  might  easily 
be  plainer.  'Tis  not  so  fresh  a  face,  perhaps,  as  it  has  been,  but  it 
bears  the  stamp  of  serene,  self-controlling,  mature  womanhood, 
which  is,  after  all,  more  to  be  prized  than  the  wavering  lights  of 
unformed,  pink  and  white  girlhood.  This  arrangement  of  my  hair 
is  decidedly  becoming,  and  how  wonderfully  a  well  made,  well  fit- 
ting habit  sets  off  one's  figure.  A  woman  always — if  she  looks  at 
all — looks  her  best  in  a  riding-habit,  so  I've  been  told;  and  I  really 


BEHIND   THE  ARRAS.  243 

believe  it's  true.  I  shouldn't  be  surprised  if  Mr.  Tufnell— Jolliffe, 
I  mean — thought  so  too.  Men  are  such  strange  creatures.  Or,  per- 
haps, it  was  my  voice  that  won  him.  I  don't  sing  badly;  that  is 
very  badly;  as  well  as  most  English  women,  at  all  events.  But 
that's  not  saying  much,  I'm  afraid.  It  can't  be  my  fortune  that  he's 
after.  He's  too  well  off  himself  to  think  of  that,  and  too  honest  as 
well,  I'm  sure.  Oh,  no,  it's  only  for  myself  that  he  likes  me;  and 
really,  I'm  not  such  a  bad  bargain  for  Mr.  Jolliffe  Tufnell,  after  all. 
Nor  is  he  for  me,  for  that  matter.  He's  not  so  awfully  ugly,  and 
one  doesn't  notice  his  awkwardness  half  so  much  when  one  gets  ac- 
customed to  it.  It  will  make  a  vast  improvement  in  his  appearance 
when  I  persuade  him  to  discard  those  horrid  spectacles.  I  must  get 
him  to  give  up  red  silk  pocket-handkerchiefs,  too.  He'll  do  it  for 
me,  I  know;  he's  such  a  kind-hearted  fellow.  Knocklofty  Hall  is  a 
nice  cosy  old  place,  and  we  shall  get  on  famously  together,  I 
haven't  a  doubt.  Knocklofty  Hall — what  a  name!  It's  such  a  pity 
that  both  master  and  home  should  have  such  dreadful  names.  Mrs. 
Jolliffe  Tufnell,  Knocklofty  Hall.  Not  so  utterly  bad— a  trifle  odd, 
no  more.  Julia  Tufnell!  How  strangely  it  sounds.  Heigho!  Poor 
Florence;  I  wish  she  would  make  it  up  with  Guy — for  he  loves  her, 
I  know — and  be  happy;  as  happy  as  I  am.  We  might  then  have  a 
double  wedding,  and  cheer  up  the  old  place  in  good  earnest.  Hark! 
There  are  voices  in  the  next  room  and  I  mustn't  be  caught  before 
the  glass. 

The  heavy  damask  curtains  that  divide  Lady  Egerton's  boudoir 
from  the  room  adjoining  are  down.  I  peep  between  them  and  see 
Florence  and  Guy,  he  with  his  hand  on  the  back  of  a  chair  from 
which  she  has  evidently  just  risen. 

"  "We  had  got  but  a  short  distance  beyond  the  avenue  gates,"  he 
is  saying,  "  when  my  horse  stepped  on  a  loose  stone  or  something, 
stumbled  and  strained  a  tendon  of  a  fore  leg.  He  was  too  lame  to 
think  of  going  on,  so  there  was  nothing  to  do  but  return  for  another 
horse,  and  I've  been  ever  since  getting  back." 

"  I  should  advise  you,  then,  not  to  waste  any  more  time,  if  you 
hope  to  rejoin  your  companions." 

"  I  am  in  no  hurry  to  get  back  to  them,  I  assure  you.  The  truth 
is,  I  was  only  too  glad  of  the  excuse  to  get  away  and  return  here, 

because — " 

"  Dear  me,  I've  left  all  my  rose-colored  worsted  up-stairs.  Excuse 

me,  Mr.  Egerton." 

She  is  passing  him  to  leave  the  room,  when  he  steps  before  her. 

"  Will  you  not  allow  me  a  few  minutes' conversation,  Lady  Flor- 
ence ?  Will  you  not  tell  me  what  it  is  that  I  have  done  to  make  you 
treat  me  as  you  do  ?  " 


244  BEHIND  THE  ARRAS. 

' '  I  shall  never  have  this  tidy  done  in  time  if  you  insist  on  delay- 
ing me,"  she  answers  evasively.  "  You  must  really  excuse  me, 
Mr.  Egerton.  Allow  me  to  pass,  please." 

As  she  attempts  to  pass  him,  Guy  puts  his  hand  lightly  on  her 
arm,  but  she  shakes  it  off,  angrily.  Then  he  raises  his  head  proudly, 
and  placing  his  hand  on  the  door-handle,  says  with  determination: 
"  Then  I  demand  as  a  right  what  you  refuse  as  a  favor.  I  love  you, 
Florence,"  and  his  voice  softens;  "I  love  you,  and  your  cruel 
treatment  of  me  pains  me  deeply." 

She  turns  from  him  with  a  gesture  of  impatience,  and  crosses  the 
room.  He  follows  her. 

"Nay,  turn  not  from  me  so,  for  the  time  has  come  when  I  must 
speak,  and  you  must  listen." 

"  Must,  sir?" 

"  Yes,  Florence,  must.  I  must  know  from  your  own  lips,  now — 
here  in  this  room,  what  your  real  feelings  towards  me  are.  If  you 
dislike  me,  tell  me  so  honestly  in  words.  Your  actions  ought  to 
tell  me  that,  perhaps  you'll  think.  They  ought  indeed,  heaven 
knows.  But  actions,  even  the  most  severe  and  cruel,  one  who  loves 
and  hopes  is  but  too  apt — too  prone  to  misconstrue.  If  you  hate 
me,  despise  me,  as  your  manner  of  late  would  seem  to  imply,  tell 
me  so,  that  I  deceive  myself  no  longer;  that  I  may  strive  to  learn 
to  love  you  less;  that  I  may  give  up  all  hope  of  you  at  once  and 
forever.  If  you  like  me,  Florence — dare  I  use  the  stronger  word?" 

Save  an  angry  flush  that  mounts  to  her  temples,  and  then  dies 
away  leaving  her  as  white  as  marble,  and  a  haughty  curling  of  the 
lip  as  her  breath  comes  and  goes  fitfully,  no  answer  comes  to  poor, 
pleading  Guy. 

"No?  Then,  if  you  even  merely  like,  do  not  actually  dislike  me, 
let  this  misunderstanding  be  explained,  and — 

Florence  turns  towards  him  quickly,  but  though  her  eyes  still 
flash,  there  are  tears  in  them,  and  the  scornful  lip  trembles  as  she 
speaks: 

"This  is  not  a  question  of  likes  and  dislikes,  but  one  which  in- 
volves your  honor — your  claim  to  the  title  of  gentleman.  You  force 
from  me  terms  whick  I  never  intended  should  pass  my  lips,  but 
which  are  justified  by  actions  of  yours  in  the  past  that  are  indelibly 
stamped  upon  my  mind.  Guy  Egerton,  you  are  unmanly,  dis- 
honorable, disloyal.  You  have  done  that  which  I  never  believed  it 
possible  for  you  to  do—  which  I  would  not,  could  not  have  believed 
if  I  had  not  heard  from  your  own  lips  the  words  which  proved  it  to 
me.  If  what  I  say  is  not  sufficiently  plain,  your  own  conscience 
can  supply  you  with  a  clue.  My  visit  here,  my  stay  under  the  same 


BEHIND   THE  ARRAS.  245 

roof  with  you,  has  been  made,  believe  me,  much  against  my  wish. 
In  obedience  to  duty  I  yielded  to  the  wishes  of  others  and  con- 
sented to  come.  But  in  doing  so  I  trusted,  nay,  I  had  the  right  to 
expect  that  while  I  remained,  good  taste — a  common  regard  for  the 
simple  proprieties  of  life — would  forbid  your  thrusting  your  presence 
upon  me,  would  shield  me  from  annoyance  from  you  by  word  or 
look.  In  this,  I  regret,  I  was  mistaken.  You  do  not  even  try  to 
throw  the  cloak  of  a  gentleman  over  your  imperfections.  I  will  not 
be  detained  longer  in  this  room.  Let  me  pass!'' 

G-uy  has  stood  looking  at  her  in  utter  bewilderment  while  she  has 
gradually  been  working  herself  into  a  passion,  but  now  he  folds  his 
arms,  and  still  standing  between  her  and  the  door,  says  resolutely : 

"My  manhood  will  not  permit  me  to  rest  quietly  under  such  ac- 
cusations. I  feel  in  my  heart,  where  you  would  have  me  seek  for  a 
clue,  that  I  am  guiltless  of  these  charges  you  make  against  me;  and 
I  demand  as  a  right  that  you  give  them  some  definite  shape,  that  I 
may  at  least  have  the  chance  of  disproving  them." 

Through  all  her  indignation,  something  of  admiration  for  the  man 
before  her  shows  plainly  in  Florence's  face;  but  trying  to  hide  it 
she  turns  her  face  aside. 

"You  are  thrice  unmanly  to  ask  me  this,  knowing,  as  you  must 
in  any  event,  how  difficult  is  the  task  you  would  thus  put  upon  me." 

"  I  am  sorry,"  he  says,  kindly  but  firmly.  "But  so  it  must  be. 
Your  own  sense  of  right  must  see  the  justice  of  what  I  ask." 

She  hesitates,  her  color  comes  and  goes,  there  is  a  tremulous  bit- 
ing- of  the  lower  lip,  and  a  rapid  tapping  of  one  foot  upon  the  floor 

T         ..i  i        ii!  oanciott 

as  she  seems  struggling  with,  nerseii. 

"Then  be  it  as  you  say,"  she  says  in  more  subdued  tones,  though 
the  hoarseness  of  passion  still  lingers  in  her  voice;  "though  I  can- 
not, unless  the  evidence  of  my  senses  is  not  to  be  relied  upon,  but 
believe  that  you  are  now  fully  cognizant  of  everything  of  which  you 
plead  ignorance.  However  disagreable  the  recital  may  be,  recollect 
you  have  forced  me  to  it.  When  you  first  came  to.Bratton  you  saw 
me  as  the  adopted  daughter  of  Sir  Griffith  (you  must  of  course 
have  known  that  I  was  not  your  sister),  but  when  you  learned  how 
low  was  my  birth,  when  you  thought  me  the  child  of  a  murderer, 
you  found  it  impossible  to  marry  me.  Love  was  insufficient  to 
smooth  the  obstacles  in  our  path— what  was  love,  indeed,  when 
weighed  in  the  balance  with  wealth  and  pedigree?  A  chimera!  the 
delusion  of  some  poor  half-starved  wretch  in  a  garret !  I  quote  your 
very  words,  Mr.  Egerton,  the  words  I  heard  you^  address  to  Sir 
Griffith,  my  faith  in  man  fading  away  as  I  listened." 

Guy's  expression  of  face  shows  that  he  recollects  them,  but  there 


246  BEHIND   THE  AERAS. 

is  no  sign  or  semblance  of  shame  in  his  looks  as  he  attempts  to 
speak.  Florence  holds  up  her  hand.  "Let  me  finish.  Don't 
think  that  I  blame  you  for  giving  utterance  to  these  sentiments. 
You  were  perfectly  right  not  to  wish  to  lower  yourself  in  the  world's 
estimation.  It  is  for  your  conduct  since  then,  and  now,  that  I  feel 
resentment,  not  for  what  you  said  then.  I  am  another  being  now. 
I  am  no  longer  of  obscure  birth  and  parentage — there  are  no  longer 
any  obstacles  for  impotent  love  to  overcome,  and  love  steps  man- 
fully forward  and  tries  to  win  an  Earl's  daughter.  You  will  pardon 
me,  Mr.  Egerton,  if  I  justly  feel  no  better  suited  to  you  now,  not 
having  changed  in  myself,  even  though  placed  upon  a  loftier  social 
pedestal.  You  must  judge  me  by  your  own  standard  if  you  think  I 
could  have  altered  so  quickly." 

As  she  finishes  speaking,  she  stands  for  a  moment  regarding  him 
with  eyes  that  look  the  scorn  and  contempt  her  sarcastic  words 
have  but  partially  veiled.  Then,  with  a  sudden  revulsion,  a  sad, 
half -relenting  expression  comes  into  them,  and  reaching  backward 
for  a  chair,  she  sinks  into  it  and  covers  her  face  with  her  hands. 

Guy  moves  slowly  to  her  side  with  arms  still  folded. 
•  "This  is  a  grave  offense,  Florence,  that  you  charge  me  with,"  he 
says,  and  though  his  tone  is  serious,  if  Florence  would  but  look  up 
she  might  detect,  as  I  think  I  can,  a  smile  lurking  about  the  cor- 
ners of  his  mouth :  "  a  very  grave  offense.  But  I  hardly  think  I  ought 
to  blame  you  for  forming  so  poor  an  opinion  of  me;  for  after  the 
words  you  say  you  heard  me  utter,  my  conduct,  I  will  confess,  must 
have  seemed  to  you  most  reprehensible,  and  I  no  longer  wonder 
at  the  treatment  you  have  bestowed  upon  me.  Still,  I  think 
you  might  have  afforded  me  the  opportunity  of  righting  myself  in 
your  eyes — unsusceptible  of  explanation  as  my  words  may  have 
seemed.  To  this,  at  least,  was  I  entitled  at  your  hands.  Thanks, 
however,  to  my  own  persistence,  which  you  are  pleased  to  regard 
as  ungentlemanly  intrusiveness,  I  am  now  at  last  afforded  that  op- 
portunity, and  happily  I  can  explain  everything;  and,  I  am  satisfied 
can  convince  you  of  my  sincerity  from  first  to  last.  The  words 
you  have  quoted  as  mine  were  used  by  me  in  a  conversation  I  had 
with  Sir  Griffith,  as  we  walked  together  in  one  of  the  upper  cor- 
ridors, one  night,  a  few  days  after  you  took  your  flight,  or  rather 
secreted  yourself  in  the  house.  I  remember  them  perfectly.  At 
the  time  they  were  spoken,  Sir  Griffith  and  I  were  both  aware — 
mark  me — both  aware  of  the  fact  that  you  were  the  daughter  of  the 
Earl  of  Arntenhurst." 

Florence  starts  perceptibly;  her  hands  fall  from  her  face  into  her 
lap,  and  her  fingers  play  nervously  with  her  worsted,  as  she  sits 
with  eyes  bent  upon  the  floor. 


BEHIND   THE  ARRAS.  247 

"  Your  father's  solicitor,  Mr.  Parkins,"  Guy  continues,  "whom  I 
knew,  and  who  knew  me  to  be  Guy  Egerton,  wrote  to  me  to  break 
the  news  of  your  being  Lord  Amtenhurst's  child  to  Sir  Griffith — 
knowing-  the  unwelcome  tidings  would  be  a  severe  blow  to  the  old 
gentleman,  and  believing  me  the  fittest  person  upon  whom  that 
duty  should  devolve.  Parkins's  letter  arrived  the  very  morning  you 
were  first  missed,  and  it  was  after  I  had  broken  to  my  father  in  the 
library  what  to  him  was  the  sad  intelligence  of  your  real  parentage 
that  we  sent  for  you  to  inform  you  of  it,  and  discovered  then,  for 
the  first  time,  that  you  had  gone.  All  of  this,  if  you  doubt  me,  Sir 
Griffith  can  corroborate.  Until  then  I  had  thought  you  the  child 
of  the  man  we  had  been  hunting  to  his  .death,  and  as  such — "  He 
pauses  and  Florence  murmurs: 

"  As  such,  you  in  charity  asked  me  to  be  your  wife." 

"  Not  so,  Florence,  I  loved  you  then,  as  I  do  now.  You  are  un- 
just. I  was  going  to  say,  that  as  such  was  the  case,  it  had  long 
been  a  matter  of  serious  doubt  with  us,  whether  we  ought  to  take 
measures  for  the  man's  apprehension  when  his  whereabouts  should 
be  ascertained.  And  need  I  tell  you  that  rather  than  you  should 
suffer  for  the  crime  of  your  supposed  father,  I  had  determined  to  let 
the  foul  stain  that  had  rested  so  long  upon  the  name  of  Guy  Eger- 
ton, rest  there  forever;  I  would  have  given  up  my  inheritance,  and 
remained  Alva  Ingolsby  for  all  time.  This  sacrifice  I  was  prepared 
to  make  for  your  sake,  Florence,  and  would  have  made,  had  your 
true  birth  not  been  discovered.  It  was  because  I  saw  you  carried 
beyond  my  reach  that  I  spoke  as  I  did  that  night,  and  used  the 
words  you  have  repeated.  I  was  hurt,  disappointed.  Though  the 
necessity  for  any  sacrifice  on  my  part  no  longer  existed,  and  I  was 
now  free  to  regain  my  true  position  in  society,  I  knew  that  until  that 
position  was  regained  with  an  unsullied,  untarnished  name,  a  result 
it  seemed  then  doubtful  when  I  should  succeed  in  accomplishing, 
I  must  banish  all  thoughts  of  you  from  my  heart.  As  Alva  In- 
golsby, I  could  never  hope  to  win  the  hand  of  an  earl's  only  daugh- 
ter." 

There  is  silence  for  a  moment,  and  then  Florence  rises  slowly 
from  her  chair,  and  without  looking  at  Guy,  holds  out  her  trembling- 
hands  to  him. 

"  Forgive  me.  I  have  wronged  you,  wronged  you  deeply,  and  I 
am  sorry." 

"  Forgive  you?"  and  with  a  happy  smile,  he  is  putting  his  arms 
about  her,  when  she  steps  quickly  back. 

"Mr.  Egerton!  You  forget  }rourself.  There  is  another  Flor- 
ence— Florence  Clinton." 


248  BEHIND   THE  ARRAS. 

Guy  looks  puzzled  for  an  instant,  and  then  the  truth  seems  to 
flash  upon  him. 

"  I  beg  your  pardon,"  he  says  coolly;  "there  is  no  such  person 
as  Florence  Clinton,  that  I  am  aware  of." 

Florence  raises  her  eyes  for  the  first  time  and  looks  at  him  in  mute 
wonder. 

"  There  was,  once  upon  a  time,"  he  continues,  with  a  quizzical 
smile,  "  but  she  is  Florence  Arnold  now.  I  have  the  letter  here/' 
touching  his  breast-pocket,  "  telling  me  of  her  marriage." 

"  From  her?"  suspiciously. 

"No;  from  her  husband." 

"And  you  never  loved  her?" 

"  Never.     Were  you  jealous  ?" 

With  downcast  eyes  and  blushing  face  she  murmurs,  softly, 

"Yes." 

Guy  stands  motionless,  enjo}ring  her  embarrassment,  for  she 
knows  not  what  to  say —what  to  do.  She  looks  up  shyly,  at  last, 
with  a  pretty,  tremulous  smile  of  mingled  consciousness  and  joy, 
and  then  he  takes  her  in  his  arms,  and  all  past  misunderstandings 
are  forgiven  and  forgotten  as  he  presses  her  to  his  heart. 

Presently  he  leads  her  to  a  sofa  and  drawing  her  to  his  side  they 
talk  with  lowered  voices. 

"My  own  darling,  mine  at  last;  mine  whom  I  have  loved  and 
waited  for  so  long,"  he  says,  imprisoning  one  little  hand.  "You 
don't  know  how  many  times  your  cold  and  cutting  manner  has  hurt 
me  of  late,  darling.  I  could  not  make  out  what  it  was  that  I  had 
done,  and  I  would  have  thought  you  had  learned  to  love  another  had 
it  not  been  for  one  little  thing.  You  won't  think  me  very  conceited 
if  I  tell  you,  will  you  ?  Quite  sure  ?  Do  you  remember  that  night 
at  Avington  when  you  had  sprained  your  ankle  ?  You  were  dread- 
fully unkind  to  me  that  night." 

"  Yes?     And  were  you  not  cold  and  distant  too  ?" 

"  If  I  was,  it;  was  because  I  had  made  a  vow  to  myself  not  to 
betray  my  feelings  till  I  had  regained  my  own  name  and  station, 
and  become  more  your  equal  in  the  eyes  of  the  world;  and  I  found 
it  no  easy  task  to  hide  what  I  felt.  Your  conduct  was  inexplicable 
to  me,  and  it  pained  me  more  than  I  can  express.  I  asked  your 
cousin  to  sing  the  words  dearest  to  my  heart,  and  as  I  listened  and 
was  carried  back  to  the  long-ago,  I  chanced  ,to  catch  somebody  look- 
ing at  me  with  an  expression  which  my  vanity  construed  as  favor- 
able to  my  wishes.  That  look  has  kept  me  ever  since  from  despair- 
ing." 

Florence  blushes  and  looks  down. 


BEHIND  THE  ARRAS.  249 

' '  I  was  thinking  of  Florence  Clinton  that  night,"  she  says.  Oh, 
Guy,  you  do  not  know — you  can  never  know  all  that  I  felt  as  I  too 
listened  to  the  words  of  Edith's  song.  You  are  a  man,  and  cannot 
understand  the  workings  of  a  woman's  mind,  or  all  the  ins  and 
outs  of  her  character — they  often  puzzle  even  herself/' 

"  I  doubt  if  it  would  give  a  woman  as  much  happiness  to  be  un- 
derstood as  it  affords  her  pleasure  to  think  that  no  else  can  under- 
stand her." 

"And  I  doubt,"  Florence  replies  archly,  "if  a  man's  perfect 
knowledge  of  his  own  character  gives  him  half  so  much  gratification 
as  it  gives  a  woman  to  puzzle  over  hers." 

"And  I  again  doubt,"  laughs  Guy,  "  if  even  a  man's  just  appre- 
ciation of  his  own  virtues  is  half  so  gratifying  as  when  he  vainly 
supposes  a  woman's  character  is  clear  to  his  comprehension.  But 
tell  me,  dearest;  how  did  you  hear  about  this  other  young  woman — 
Florence  Clinton?  From  your  cousin  Edith?" 

"  That  rainy  day,  when  you  met  her  in  the  Via  Condotti,  in  Kome, 
I  was  seeking  refuge  under  the  same  shelter.  It  was  when  I  was 
playing  lady's  maid,  you  know." 

"  What!  were  you  the  woman  whom  we  thought  must  have  been 
taken  with  a  sudden  fit  of  madness,  to  go  forth  from  her  snug  re- 
treat without  apparent  reason,  into  the  driving  storm?" 

"  I  suppose  so.     I  heard  you  whisper  something,  and  I  fled." 

"Whisper  something?"  he  repeats  meditatively.  "Ah,  I  remember, 
now.  The  poor  girl  was  in  low  spirits,  at  the  thought  of  losing  her 
father,  and  I  reminded  her  that  she  still  had  Philip  Arnold,  even 
though  he  was  far  away  in  New  York.  She  had  written  to  me 
when  her  father  grew  worse,  as  the  only  friend  near  at  hand  to 
come  to  her  aid,  that  she  should  not  be  left  alone  in  a  strange 
place.  After  her  father's  death  we  found  some  American  friends 
of  her's,  on  their  way  home,  and  in  their  charge  I  placed  her. 
That  was  three  months  ago,  and  yesterday  I  received  Arnold's  letter 
telling  me  they  were  married.  To  think  that  the  whisper  which 
brought  comfort  to  her,  should  so  nearly  have  been  fatal  to  my  own 
happiness!" 

Florence's  response  is  a  blush  of  shame  at  having  ever  doubted 
him. 

"  And  do  you  remember,"  he  continues,  "  now  that  we  are  on  the 
subject  of  reminiscences,  at  dinner  that  day,  the  day  Sir  Griffith 
made  you  draw  your  fate,  as  you  called  it,  from  the  cup,  and  which 
turned  out  to  be  the  masquerade — do  you  remember  expressing 
your  horror  at  the  thought  of  being  united  to  a  man  with  the  stain 


250  BEHIND   THE  AERAS. 

of  blood  on  his  soul  ?  Ah,  how  your  remark  sunk  like  lead  into  iny 
heart/' 

"  Did  you  think  I  could  not  love  you  if  others  thought  you  guilty  ? 
Love  is  a  powerful  teacher,  Guy,  and  it  has  taught  me  the  force  of 

this: 

"  The  ruling  passion,  be  it  what  it  will, 
.The  ruling  passion  conquers  reason  still. " 

Had  you  really  spilled  blood,  even  by  accident,  and  had  we  met 
afterward  for  the  first  time,  I  knowing  it,  could  not  have  loved  you; 
I  would  not  have  allowed  myself  to  do  so.  But  once  you  had  found 
your  way  to  my  heart,  you  might  have  committed  any  crime,  and  if 
you  were  but  true  to  me,  I  fear  you  would  still  have  been  my  own, 
own  love." 

Guy's  only  answer  is  a  passionate  embrace. 

"  You  really  love  me  then — now  and  for  all  time?"  he  asks. 

"It  has  always  made  me  sad  to  hear  people  say  that  affection  dies 
after  marriage.  I  don't  believe  that  it  does.  Do  you,  Guy  ?"  and 
she  looks  up  at  him  with  serious  eyes. 

Earnestly,  he  answers: 

"No,  darling;  I  do  not.  An  unhappy  wedded  life  is  the  result 
of  a  hasty  marriage  between  those  who  are  utterly  uncongenial  in 
tastes  and  sentiments,  and  who  make  the  discovery  of  their  unfitness 
for  each  other  only  when  the  honeymoon  is  passed.  You  and  I  know 
all  of  each  other's  faults  and  good  qualities,  and  there  are  no  un- 
pleasant awakenings  to  look  forward  to,  as  to  peculiarities  of  dis- 
position and  character,  in  the  future.  I  have  no  fear,  Florence, 
that  my  love  will  ever  grow  cold.  May  I  hope  for  the  same  endur- 
ance from  yours?" 

She  does  not  answer  him  in  words,  but  nestling  closer  within  his 
protecting  arm,  bows  her  head  over  the  strong  hand,  which  clasping 
hers,  yields  gently  to  her  touch  as  she  presses  it  fondly  to  her  lips. 

"That  is  the  seal  of  obedience,"  he  says,  laughing  softly. 
"  Where  now  must  you  place  those  of  love  and  honor  ?"  Shyly  she 
puts  up  her  arms,  and  drawing  down  his  head  to  a  level  with  her 
own,  imprints  a  kiss  upon  his  brow. 

"Honor!"  he  exclaims.  "  You  are  reversing  the  order  of  your 
vows." 

As  she  hesitates1  to  give  the  last  token,  he  bends  his  head,  and 
murmuring,  "  Love,"  takes  it  with  his  lips  from  hers. 

"  By  Jove!  found  at  last;  I've  been  looking  for  you  everywhere. 
What  on  earth  are  you  doing,  my  dear?"  says  Jolliffe's  voice  behind 
me. 


BEHIND   THE  ARRAS.  251 

With  a  sudden  consciousness  of  the  unworthy  part  I  have  been 
playing,  and  eager  that  he  shall  not  discover  what  has  kept  me  so 
long  absent  from  his  side,  I  turn  quickly  to  meet  him.  As  I  take 
his  arm  and  lead  him  away,  to  the  awakened  sense  of  shame  for 
what  I  have  been  doing  is  joined  the  thought  which  flashes  through 
my  mind:  Would  this  scene  ever  have  been  enacted;  would  past 
events  have  followed  in  succession  as  they  have;  in  short — would 
this  tale  ever  have  been  told,  had  no  unseen  observer  stood  and 
listened  thus — 

BEHIND  THE  ARRAS? 


•    \ 


